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THE CHILDREN OF CUPA. 






The hushes parted, Francisco was there, hearin/r, seeing."— Page 126. 



THE CHILDREN OF CUPA. 


BY 

MARY E. MANNIX, 

1 ■. 

Author of'^'As True as Gold'' 
Pancha and Panchito'' etc. 



NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, CHICAGO: 

BKNZIQKR BROTi'HKRS, 

Printers to the Holy Apostolic See, 

1905. 


' UNWARY ot 

Two Oop»es rteco(vcK> 

NOV I 

'" Sopyngni entry 

,7't^ .5. / 9 6' i" 
loM«S Q. AJto Wa 

/ 3 0 a. (. 4 
copy 6. 


Copyright, 1905, by Bbnziger Brothers. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER I. 

Summer Plans — The Cupehos 7 

CHAPTER II. 

The Journey — Francisco 18 

CHAPTER III. 

At the Spring 3^ 

CHAPTER IV. 

The Missionary 49 

CHAPTER V. 

At Church 61 

CHAPTER VI. 

Dionysio and Margarita 73 

CHAPTER VII. 

The Pedlar 87 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Falsely Accused loi 

CHAPTER IX. 

A Jaunt — The Valley of the Rattlesnakes 113 

CHAPTER X. 

The Almirantes 127 

CHAPTER XL 

The “Junta” 141 

CHAPTER XII. 

The Return 152 



THE CHILDREN OF CUPA. 


CHAPTER I. 

SUMMER PLANS. — THE CUPENOS. 

The mother had been very ill, and the ques- 
tion was, where shall we take her so that she 
may get thoroughly well ? It must be some place 
where the family might accompany her. She 
had declared that she would not go without 
papa and Nellie and Walter. 

It was nearing the close of schooltime, and 
papa’s yearly vacation was at hand, so there 
would be no difficulty on that score. Some one 
had suggested Santa Monica as allording a com- 
plete change of scene, but the doctor tabooed 
that place and she herself did not care for it. 

“She is already too near the sea,” the man 
of medicine said. “She needs entire change; 
she would only grow ill again and nervous amid 
the clatter of hotel life and the crowds on the 
beach.” 

“But we might take a cottage,” suggested 
Aunt Mary. 

“Yes — I know those seaside cottages,” said 
the doctor, “that is, those which are built to 
rent for the season. A few boards thrown to- 


8 


Summer Plans — The Cupehos. 


gether, and only a pretence made of papering 
the walls inside — draughts rusliing through the 
rooms continually and underneath the house 
as well. Why, my dear sir, you can actually 
see the carpet rising in waves from the floor. 
They are all erected on piles, you know. No 
seaside cottage for our invalid — no, indeed.” 

‘^What do you say to the mountains, doctor?” 
asked Mr. Page. 

^‘The very thing,” was the reply. “But there 
are objections to be made in that case also. 
Accommodations are not usually comfortable — 
the food is always plentiful, but not always 
choice.” 

“I was thinking of camping,” said Mr. Page. 
“I have a complete camping outfit and at my 
call a man, Charlie Dorner, who is the prince 
of cooks. He is, besides, a fine general utility 
man — can do anything.” 

“That would be the ideal; but,” sighed the 
doctor, “I wish I could go along.” 

“And so you can; or join us later.” 

“Well, we’ll see about that. Just now we’re 
talking of Mrs. Page. If you have an outfit 
of your own you need not be at anybody’s 
mercy. But you must not choose too high a lo- 
cation, nor where it is likely to be too warm, 
nor an utterly inaccessible place. By that I 


Summer Plans — The Cupehos. 


9 


mean she must not be too far from the railroad 
— or her doctor. What do you say to the 
Springs ? I have an idea that the air and the 
hot water together would complete her cure.” 

‘‘The air!” exclaimed Aunt Mary. “Why, 
it is only fourteen miles from here ; there can’t 
be any difference in the atmosphere. Besides, 
those springs are in a valley; you can’t have 
seen them. The fogs are dreadful in the early 
morning I have been told.” 

“Not at my Springs,” said the doctor with 
a smile. “I’m speaking of Warner’s Eanch, 
although I’ve stayed at the others and have 
seen wondrous cures effected there, I assure 
you.” 

Aunt Mary had not been long in California, 
hut she was fond of “reading up,” and she had 
been reading about Warner’s Ranch. 

“Do you mean the springs which belong, or 
were supposed to belong, to the Indians, from 
whose possession they are now going to be 
taken ?” 

“Yes,” replied the doctor; “and I think the 
whole proceeding is an infamous outrage.” 

Nellie and Walter had been sitting quietly 
listening to their elders. But at this point in 
the conversation Walter, who was thirteen, ex- 
claimed : 


10 


Summer Plans — The Cupehos. 


Oh, papa, let us go there, won’t you ? 

^^Just think. Aunt Mary,” he continued, ^^it 
is a regular Indian village, and in the summer 
the Indians move out of their houses and rent 
them to the white people. I knew a boy who 
lived in one, and he said it was fine. Wouldn’t 
it be grand making believe to be an Indian !” 

sympathize with those poor creatures very 
much,” said Aunt Maiy. think it is heart- 
less to evict them from their homes ; but I don't 
believe I should care to occupy one of the houses. 
It might not be clean, you know.” 

“Well, that’s as may be,” said the doctor. “I 
have known persons loud in their praises of 
the place, and others whining about dirt and 
discomfort. You would not be subject to any- 
thing of that kind. You would have your large, 
clean, comfortable tents.” 

“Let’s tell mother. Let’s ask her if she would 
like to go,” said Nellie, speaking for the first 
time. 

“ Of course she’ll like it ; she’s certain to like 
it,” cried Walter, springing to his feet. They 
were not long in ascending the stairs, though 
they went quietly, having become accustomed to 
making as little noise as possible during their 
mother’s long and serious illness. Now that 
she was so much better they had not renounced 


Summer Plans — The Cupehos. 


II 


the habit, which had become a sort of second 
nature to them*. 

^Tome in,” said a sweet, low voice as Nellie 
tapped on the door. In a moment they were 
. both kneeling beside the lounge where their 
mother lay. 

‘‘You don’t feel very bad this afternoon, 
mamma?” inquired Walter, anxiously. 

“Oh, no/’ she replied. “On the contrary, I 
am feeling particularly well and strong to-day. 
But the doctor says I must lie down the greater 
part of the time. I thought I heard his voice 
just now. Hasn’t he gone yet?” 

“No; that’s why we came, mother,” said 
Nellie. “They’re discussing things in the li- 
brary. They think now they’ll take you to 
Warner’s Hot Springs, and we want you to go 
there, we do, badly. Oh, it will be great fun.” 

“Papa is talking of getting out the tents and 
the camping wagon and taking Charlie Dorner 
along. Oh, it will be lots of fun. I hope you 
like the plan.” 

“I am sure I shall like it,” replied their 
mother. “I am very fond of camping. Don’t 
you remember the summer we spent at Broad 
Beach ?” 

“Yes, that was lots of fun,” said Walter. 
“But that wasn’t anything to what this will 


12 


Summer Plans — The Cupehos. 


be. Fancy, mother, an Indian village — a real 
Indian one. And you can live in their houses 
if you want to — ^though Aunt Mary says she 
doesn^t believe they are very clean. 

“We would have our tents,^^ said Nellie. “Dr. 
Madden says he thinks the water would do you 
a great deal of good, mother. 

“I feel better already,’’ said the mother, sit- 
ting up and smoothing back her hair. “ I want 
to start at once.” 

They all laughed, and presently the children 
were seated beside her, each holding a hand, 
wondering when everything would be in readi- 
ness for the start. 

“We don’t have to get any new clothes, do 
we?” inquired Nellie, to whom the bugbear of a 
summer outfit was receding into the back- 
ground. 

“No; we shall wear our oldest things,” re- 
plied the mother. “Still, we shall not aim to 
make scarecrows of ourselves, my dear, as some 
people really seem to do when they go camping.” 

The children laughed again. “As though 
you could make a scarecrow of yourself!” ex- 
claimed Nellie, looking fondly at her fair, deli- 
cate mother in her dainty white wrapper, and 
shoulder shawl of soft, scarlet wool. 

“But suppose they would put the Indians out 


Summer Plans — The Cupehos. 


13 


while we are there; then what would we do, 
mother?’’ asked Nellie. couldn’t bear to be 
near and see it,” said the tender-hearted child. 
“I think it’s dreadful, don’t you, mother?” 

^‘Yes, it is,” rejoined her mother. ^^Yet it 
does not seem possible to avoid it.” 

“Tell us about it, mother, will you?” pleaded 
Walter. “There has been much fuss over it in 
the papers. Why do the Indians have to go 
away from this place where they have lived 
so long?” 

Mrs. Page reflected for a moment before re- 
plying. Then she said: 

“I can’t remember all the details, and you 
would not be interested in them if I could ; but 
as nearly as I know the facts of the case I shall 
try to relate them to you. 

“Many years ago Col. Juan Jose Warner re- 
ceived a grant of immense tracts of land from 
the Mexican government. On these lands, or 
part of them, some tribes of Indians were then 
living. They and their forefathers had lived 
there for many years. It was a provision of 
the grants or patents given by the Mexican gov- 
ernment that the ‘mission Indians’ were never 
to be disturbed. In nearly all cases their rights 
were respected. Do you understand, dear 
children ?’^ 


14 


Summer Plans — The Cupehos. 


Walter nodded, but Nellie said: Mamma, 
how was it that the Mexican government 
granted lands to people in California?” 

^^Why, don’t you know that California was 
once part of Mexico ?” inquired Walter, with a 
little air of superiority. 

believe I used to, but maybe I have for- 
gotten it,” murmured. Nellie, quite discomfited, 
as she always was when her brother asserted his 
better knowledge of history and current events. 

‘‘Well, mamma, what next?” inquired the 
boy. “We don’t want to ‘lose the thread.’ 
That’s what our teacher says when the scholars’ 
attention seems to wander.” 

“After some time,” resumed Mrs. Page, “this 
tract of land, known by the name of Warner’s 
Eanch, was sold to Governor Downey, who did 
not molest the Indians. There were several 
tribes besides those who lived at the Hot 
Springs. But later there was a lawsuit, and 
many endeavors were made to eject them, on the 
ground that they had only occupied the land 
after it had been granted to Warner. 

“This lawsuit has been going on for many 
years. Eecently it has been decided, very un- 
justly, most people think, that the Indians 
must go.” 

“But where are they to go?” asked Nellie, 


Summer Plans — The Cupehos. 15 

her round blue eyes opening with every word. 

Where can they go?” 

“The United States government will place 
them on some other reservation,” said Mrs. 
Page. “A commission has been appointed to 
select one where the land is fertile and water 
plentiful. It will not be very long now, I think, 
before some place will be decided upon. It is 
a very good thing that every one on the com- 
mission is a friend of the Indians, and would 
allow them to remain in their present home if 
they could arrange it.” 

“Is Warner^s Banch a very large tract of 
land, mother?” asked Walter. 

“Very large, my son.” 

“Why canT they let the Indians stay on their 
little bit of land, then? They havenT a great 
deal, have they?” 

“Not much, compared with the extent of the 
whole tract. However, the owners of the ranch 
wish to derive profit from the springs, as the 
Indians are doing, only they would erect wooden 
buildings and make many improvements. They 
wish to make the springs a popular resort.” 

“Pd never go there if they did, never!” said 
Nellie. “How can the government be so un- 
just as to put those Indians out, when they 
have always lived there?” 


i6 Summer Plans — The Cupehos. 

“It seems that when the tract was originally 
sold the Indians should have presented their 
claim to the portion they occupied. As they 
did not do that, after a certain number of 
years their rights were forfeited. That is the 
law.” 

“Why didn’t they present their claims?” 
asked Walter. 

“Simply, my son, I suppose, because they 
were ignorant of the requirements of the law. 
They had lived there always; they could not 
remember having heard of a time when their 
forefathers had not lived there. They did not 
dream they would ever he disturbed. And so 
it came to pass that when they were informed 
steps had been taken to eject them they paid 
no attention to it.” 

“Why didn’t they get a lawyer to attend to 
it for them?” 

“After some time they did. There were able 
lawyers employed on both sides. The suit has 
lasted for many years, has been taken from one 
court to another, and now it has been finally 
decided that the Indians must go. I have 
heard that many of them still refuse to be- 
lieve it.” 

“I call it a beastly shame,” said Walter, 
“Why don’t they fight?” 


Summer Plans — The Cupehos. 


17 


^‘What could a couple of hundred warriors 
do against the United States government?^’ re- 
plied Mrs. Page. 

thought the Comanches and Apaches, and 
those Indian tribes liked to fight just for the 
sake of fighting,” said Nellie. 

‘^That is probably true,” replied Mrs. Page; 
“but our California Indians are neither Co- 
manches nor Apaches, my dear. They have al- 
ways been peaceful, and have been called the 
^mission Indians’ from the time of the first es- 
tablishment of the Spanish Franciscans at San 
Diego. The Warner Eanch Indians are called 
Cupenos, from Cupa, the name given to the 
hot springs. Comfortable and happy they were 
while under the control of the mission Fathers ; 
but since the time that the missions were abol- 
ished and the priests scattered things have been 
very different. That was after the Mexican 
War, about which you both know something, I 
believe. Certainly Walter does.” 

“I’m very anxious to go, aren’t you, mother?” 
asked Walter. 

“Yes, if it has been decided that it will bene- 
fit me,” said Mrs. Page. “I should like to 
start to-morrow if I could.” 

“Here they come — ^papa. Aunt Mary and the 
doctor,” said Nellie, as footsteps were heard 


i8 


The Journey — Francisco. 


ascending the stairs; ‘‘I hope they haven't 
found many objections." 

Everybody was smiling as they entered, and 
the doctor said: ^^Mrs. Page, no doubt the little 
ones have prepared you for our verdict. We 
have decided to send you to the hot springs. 
The sooner you are ready to start the better." 


CHAPTER II. 

THE JOURNEY. ERANCISCO. 

On a bright morning in early June, Charlie 
Dorner drove up to the Pages’ door with a large 
camping wagon, to which two strong, stout 
mules were harnessed. The wagon was then 
laden with things brought from the house in 
barrels, boxes, baskets, and bundles. One not 
familiar with the capacity of California mules 
would have thought it impossible for two ani- 
mals to haul the tremendous load on the long 
climb, which was to end sixty miles in the moun- 
tains, three thousand feet above the level of the 
sea. 

Charlie Holden, in a suit of corduroy, with 
high boots and leggings, and a huge sombrero of 
Mexican make on his curly red head, excited the 


The Journey — Francisco. 


19 


admiration of Walter, who had never seen him 
before. The mules started off without balking 
after one crack of Charlie’s whip. The speed 
with which they started was not great, but Mr. 
Page, who stood with the children watching the 
departure, said they would be likely to keep the 
same pace until their destination was reached on 
the afternoon of the following day. 

‘T’d like awfully well to go along,” said 
Walter. wish I had thought of it before. 
Would you have let me go, papa?’^ 

“No; I think it is better that we should all 
keep together,” said Mr. Page. “I am sure 
mother would not have considered it for a 
moment.” 

“I think it is nearly time to start, don’t you, 
father?” inquired Nellie, consulting a diminu- 
tive silver watch which her mother had given 
her on her tenth birthday. “Why, it’s almost 
eight o’clock, and the train goes at nine.” 

Mr. Page laughed. “The cab will not be here 
before half-past,” he said; “and even then we 
shall have more than ample time to reach the 
train.” 

Nellie sighed. “I think I’ll go in and see if 
I can do anything for mamma,” she said. 
“This does seem such a dreadfully long 
morning.” 


20 


The Journey — Francisco. 


^‘You were up at half-past five/^ said Mr. 
Page. ‘^That is why it seems so long. But we 
shall be off pretty soon, and then you will find 
time flying. At least I hope so, for we have 
quite a journey before us.” 

When they were seated at last in the train 
in which they were to make the first part of 
the trip, with the mother well wrapped in her 
traveling cloak, the children amused themselves 
by looking out of the car windows at the groves 
of lemons, oranges, and nuts extending on both 
sides of the railroad. Thus an hour passed 
quickly, and the station where they were to leave 
the train was reached. 

^^The mountains are beginning already,” said 
Walter, as they stood on the platform awaiting 
the arrival of the stage. It was indeed a wild- 
looking spot. Sheer from the road high hills 
rose ruggedly, clothed here and there with mes- 
quite bushes and wild fern, now beginning to 
wither through lack of rain. 

^^Yes, the mountains are beginning, as you 
say,” remarked Mr. Page. ^‘We shall have 
ample opportunity to become acquainted with 
them to-day.” 

As he spoke a buggy, rather dilapidated in 
appearance, the horse driven by a Mexican, came 
in sight. Mr. Page and his wife had arranged 


The Journey — Francisco. 


21 


to drive in this, thinking it would not be so 
fatiguing as riding in the stage. 

‘^Good-morning, Juan,’’ said Mr. Page. 

“Good-morning, Sehor,” the man replied. 
“Not very pretty, this, says Sehor Smith, but 
comfortable, yes.” 

“Well, we care more for comfort than beauty 
just here and now,” rejoined Mr. Page. “Moth- 
er,” he continued, turning to his wife, “are you 
ready to drive with me for the eight hours 
or so?” 

“Oh, not so long, Sehor,” said the man. “In 
six you will be well at Santa Isabel.” 

“We do not go so far to-night, I think,” said 
Mr. Page. “However, that will depend on cir- 
cumstances.” 

Mrs. Page was ready. “Shall we start at 
once, Ealph?” she inquired. “Or shall we wait 
and see the others off first?” 

“We ought to go ahead of them,” said the 
husband; “otherwise we shall have the dust of 
the road in our eyes all the way. Those stage 
horses make clouds of dust.” 

“Well, then, we had better go ahead. Let us 
wait, though, till the stage arrives. I want to 
feel that they are coming just behind us,” she 
said. 

“Here it is now !” shouted Walter. 


22 


The Journey — Francisco. 


“My patience!’^ exclaimed Aunt Mary. 
“What a ramshackle affair it is — nothing but 
a dilapidated covered wagon. 

The driver, a thin-faced, dark-skinned young 
man with a strong nasal accent, showed a set 
of brilliant teeth as he rejoined pleasantly : 

“Mebbe it looks ramshackle, miss ; but you’ll 
find it all right as a carrier. There’s lots of 
folks come up and down oncet or twicet a week 
just for the pleasure of ridin’ in this here 
stage.” 

With these words he threw the reins over the 
backs of the horses and, stepping upon the plat- 
form, prepared to put in the freight and bag- 
gage before seating the passengers. Sack after 
sack, box after box, package after package was 
deposited in the immense “boot” at the back 
of the vehicle; then the space under and be- 
tween the seats was filled to its utmost capacity. 

“See here,” said Mr. Page, who had been 
watching the transfer with some concern, 
“where are you going to put your passengers? 
Or, rather, where are they going to put their 
feet? Do you intend to have them sit Turk 
fashion on the seats ?” 

The driver showed his brilliant teeth once 
more as he answered, good-humoredly : “ Plenty 
of room for passengers, mister. I understand 


The Journey — Francisco. 


23 


you and the lady are goin^ in the buggy. There 
won’t be no one in the stage, ’ceptin’ the other 
lady and the little boy and gal and myself. 
You ought to see ’em sometimes, settin’ on each 
other’s laps.” 

^^Oh, there’s room enough in one way,” said 
Mr. Page; “but they will have no place to rest 
their feet. Why do you crowd the stage with 
baggage and freight? Why don’t you have an 
extra wagon?” 

“Ha, ha!” laughed the driver, though not at 
all disrespectfully. “That woidd be a cost — 
to freighters. 

“But,” he continued, quite seriously, “this is 
a larger load of freight and baggage than usual. 
There’s going to be a party up at Julian to- 
night, and there’s a good many extras. 

“If you’ll step in now, ladies,” he went on, 
turning politely to Aunt Mary and Nellie, “you 
can have your choice of seats. The lady can 
set in the back with the hull seat to herself, 
and she won’t have to sit Turk fashion, neither. 
The little gal can do the same, and when you 
put a robe at your hack — ^plenty of ’em here 
— ^you’ll be like you was reclinin’ on a couch. 
Otherwise, I don’t deny that if you sit up 
straight you’ll have your knees at your chin, 
for there won’t be no other place to put ’em. 


24 


The Journey — Francisco. 


with the boxes and bags on the floor. The little 
feller can set with me in front. 

Walter sprang into the place allotted him. 

Hello he exclaimed. ^^Our legs are not 
going to be cramped. YouVe got all the bag- 
gage under the other seats behind there. 

That’s the way it’s got to be/’ said the 
driver gravely. ^^Got to have my legs free to 
steer the ship. Holdin’ them mnles ain’t al- 
ways a joke.” 

^‘Oh, are they dangerous?” queried Aunt 
Mary in alarm, in the act of gathering her 
skirts about her to enter the vehicle. Nellie 
was already seated sidewise on her perch. 

“Not a bit dangerous, ma’am,” rejoined the 
driver. “Never been an accident on this here 
line. But there could be, and there might be 
without keerful drivers — we have ’em on this 
route ” 

“And couldn’t you, don’t you think, dust off 
the seats?” asked Aunt Mary, still hesitating, 
her skirts in her hands. 

The boy here burst into a flt of uncontrollable 
mirth. “It’s plain to be seen this here’s your 
first trip to the mountains, ma’am. Why, what 
would be the use? Before we get to Witch 
Creek we’ll be fairly eatin’ dust.” 

With a solemn shake of the head, but making 


The Journey — Francisco. 


25 


no further remarks, Aunt Mary now took her 
place. Giving her and Nellie each a heavy 
woolen blanket to serve as cushions for their 
backs, the driver also prepared to envelop them 
m linen robes, to preserve them as much as pos- 
sible from the dust they were to ‘^eat’^ before 
nightfall. 

“Oh, I can^t have that thing around me,” 
said Nellie, tossing it aside. “I want to be able 
to move about. I’m not afraid of the dust.” 

Mrs. Page, who stood beside her husband 
watching the proceedings, was about to remon- 
strate, but the husband said: 

“Let her alone, Martha. The dust will not 
hurt her. The child is right.” 

The driver nodded his head in approbation 
and prepared to take his own seat. “ Here 
comes the mail,” he said, as a short, squat man 
approached, carrying a sack on his shoulder. 
“WeTl be off in a jiffy now.” 

“There you are, Dingley!” the man called 
out as he flung the mail pouch at Walter’s feet. 

“Come, mother,” said Mr. Page, helping his 
wife into the buggy; “we must get a start, or 
we'll be in for the dust.” 

“That’s so,” rejoined Dingley, “that’s so. 
I’ll give ye five minutes’ start to forge ahead.” 

Presently the brisk little buggy horse was 


26 


The Journey — Francisco. 


trotting ahead, and as it turned the first bend 
of the road the stage driver touched his mules. 
Off they started. 

Despite the dust which covered them from 
head to foot, even penetrating the luncheon 
basket (which they opened about noon by the 
side of a tiny, clear spring half hidden amid a 
grove of cottonwood trees), the party enjoyed 
the ride very much. By the time they reached 
Witch Creek, where they intended passing the 
night if Mrs. Page felt much fatigued, she 
thought herself fully able to push on to Santa 
Isabel. From there they would have to make 
an early start for the hot springs next morning. 

Three miles and a half further on their jour- 
ney ended for the day. They had enjoyed every 
inch of it, yet were delighted to find themselves, 
at the close of the day, in the long, white, one- 
story hotel, set invitingly amid a grove of trees 
larger than any they had seen in California. 
After an appetizing supper they retired to rest. 
Everybody slept well, and seven o’clock found 
them ready for the road once more. 

To the surprise of the children, who thought 
they were to make the remainder of their jour- 
ney in the company of their friend Dingley, 
they learned that such was not the case. He 
had continued on his route up to Julian. The 


The Journey — Francisco. 


27 


way of our travelers lay in another direction. 
It was a delight to step into the spring wagon 
awaiting them, to find themselves speeding 
along the edge of the foot-hills, through the 
broad valley, until, almost before they had be- 
come accustomed to their surroundings, the 
driver, pointing to a speck in the distance, ap- 
parently at the very base of a rugged mountain, 
announced: There are the hot springs. 

^‘How close to the mountain they are,’’ said 
Walter. 

“Not so close as they seem,” was the reply. 
“They are seven miles distant, but the atmo- 
sphere is so clear that they appear much 
nearer.” 

A sudden turn in the road now hid the vil- 
lage from view. As they wound on and on it 
would reappear and disappear, always under 
some new aspect of wild picturesqueness and 
beauty. 

“You see that highest peak over there, just 
above the village?” said the driver, pointing 
with his whip. “Well, that is the ^Eagle.’ The 
two other mountains nearest are called the 
^Eabbit’ and the ‘Squaw.’ ” 

“What lies behind that small mountain chain 
at whose foot the village seems to nestle?” in- 
quired Aunt Mary. 


28 


The Journey — Francisco. 


^‘Tlie desert/’ replied the driver. Those 
hills are all that separate these lands from the 
dreariest wastes yon ever saw.” 

Soon they came in sight of small, cultivated 
patches of land, whose rich, black soil gave evi- 
dence of its fertility. Adobe houses, with brush 
additions, could be seen everywhere. The sound 
of falling water pleasantly greeted their ears. 

^^Is there a waterfall here?” asked Mrs. Page. 

“N’o, ma’am,” said the driver. At least, not 
a natural waterfall. That sound is made by 
the waste water from the bathhouses flowing 
into the irrigation ditch, which is used by all 
these people in turn to irrigate their lands.” 

Some one shouted Hello !” and in a moment 
Charlie Horner was seen approaching. “Turn 
in this way, if you please,” he said. “I’ve, 
found a splendid camping place — ^not too sunny, 
not too shady, not too close to anybody, yet very 
near the baths.” 

Mrs. Page remained in the wagon, but the 
others were soon following Charlie down a short 
incline leading to a miniature grove of cotton- 
woods. A pair of pepper trees stood guard at 
the entrance. The main tent — ^there were three 
— ^was arranged as a sitting-room. Here Mrs. 
Page and Aunt Mary and Hellie were to sleep. 
During the day their bunks were fastened to 


The Journey — Francisco. 29 

the sides of the tent and hidden by curtains. 
A large rug covered the boarded floor. Board 
floors are somewhat of a luxury among the 
Cupa folk, especially the campers. 

A table covered by a dark red cloth stood in 
the middle. Comfortable camp chairs were 
scattered all about. In one of the other tents 
Mr. Page and Walter were to sleep, in another 
Charlie would take up his quarters. 

An abandoned brush-house in the rear, about 
fifteen feet square, had been converted into a 
kitchen and dining-room, divided by an arch- 
way made of pepper boughs. When Mrs. Page 
arrived she was showm to the tent sitting-room. 
She pronounced it perfect. 

The children, eager to explore the neighbor- 
hood, scarcely took time to unpack their belong- 
ings before they asked to be allowed to go out for 
a walk. Permission being given, their father said 
he would go along. “ Oh, yes, do come, papa,” 
said Nellie. ^^You can show us everything.” 

^^We are now on the outskirts of Cupa,” he 
said merrily as, after descending the declivity 
which led to their camping place, they stood at 
the head of a street, or road, with houses 
straggling on either side to the number of forty 
or fifty. In the distance could be seen flourish- 
ing vineyards and green patches of land. 


30 


The Journey — Francisco. 


Here and there a man was lazily ploughing. 
To the left arose a great cloud of steam ascend- 
ing slowly into the air, where it was soon lost 
in the clear blue. 

There are the springs/’ said Mr. Page. 

Shall we go down?” 

“Yes, yes, let us go !” cried both children. As 
they strolled along the dusty street Walter ob- 
served that he saw only white people. 

“Where are the Indians?” he inquired anx- 
iously. “Have they gone so far away from their 
homes that we can’t see them at all ?” 

“Oh, no,” replied the father. “On our re- 
turn, if we take a short cut to the right, we 
shall probably see a good many of them living 
in those brush-houses.” 

And it so proved. After they had gone down 
to the springs, surveyed the boiling pools burst- 
ing from the solid granite and taken a drink 
from one of them, they returned by the back 
road, and found that every brush-house they 
passed was inhabited by Indians, in various 
stages of comfort or discomfort. These houses 
generally stood from fifty to a hundred feet in 
the rear of the adobe dwelling, rented for the 
season at a good price to the visitors in search 
of health or recreation. 

The people manifested no curiosity at the 


The Journey — Francisco. 


31 


appearance of the strangers; even the Indian 
children were stolid and indifferent. Later the 
Pages were to learn that the reserve could be 
broken when they came to look upon the stran- 
gers as friends. Making a detour, the trio ad- 
vanced toward the church, which stood on a 
slight knoll overlooking the village. 

Everything around it was bleak and lean, 
the plaster falling from the walls both outside 
and inside. They tried to enter, but the door 
was locked. Through the windows they could 
see the little altar adorned with bright tissue- 
paper flowers. There appeared to be no one in 
the vicinity, and Walter, in a spirit of mischief, 
picked up a stick from the ground and touched 
the bell which hung in front of the door on 
two heavy crossbeams, gnarled and worm-eaten. 

“Walter, you should not have done that,” 
said the father, as a single, sharp, clear note 
resounded through the air. 

“It is what they all do,” said a boyish voice 
back of him. “It is a beautiful sound, don’t 
you think?” 

“Where did you come from, my boy?” asked 
Mr. Page as the 5mung stranger advanced. He 
was about Walter’s age, clad in blue overalls and 
flannel shirt. The battered felt hat which served 
him as head covering was held in his hand. 


32 


The Journey — Francisco* 


live there,” he replied, pointing to a 
ruined adobe house at some distance behind the 
church. *‘1 live there with Mauricio. He is my 
uncle. He is the priest.” 

‘^The priest!” exclaimed Mr. Page. “And 
living in such a place ! Are you not an Indian 
boy ?” he continued, looking at the swarthy skin, 
black eyes and raven hair. “Surely you are an 
Indian, and there are no Indian priests, in this 
country, at least.” 

“He is not a real priest, my uncle,” replied 
the boy. “But that is what they call him — 
the Protestants, I mean. I told you that way 
just for fun.” 

He was smiling broadly, showing his white 
teeth, and his eyes twinkled merrily. 

“How did you know we were Catholics?” in- 
quired Mr. Page rather gravely, not very well 
pleased at this facetiousness. 

“I saw you kneel in front of the church, I 
saw you make the sign of the cross ; and I knew 
then that you did not come to make fun, as so 
many do.” 

“But why do you make fun and tell us your 
uncle is a priest when he is not one ? Where is 
he now ?” 

“He is away at Palomas — at the sheep-shear- 
ing,” said the boy. “I will tell it to you what 


The Journey — Francisco. 


33 


I mean. My uncle takes care for the church — 
the Father comes not often here any more, and 
every Sunday my uncle rings the bell, or some- 
times I do, and the people come, and he says 
the prayers aloud. And that is why the people 
who do not know about Catholics call him the 
priest. We let them do; we don’t care. They 
don’t know much — some of them.” 

^‘You speak English very well,” said Walter. 

^^And why not?” answered the boy. “I have 
been to school six years at Doming, at the Mis- 
sion. Maybe I go back in the fall, I don’t 
know.” 

^^Whafc is your name?” inquired Mr. Page. 

“I am called Francisco Perez,” was the reply. 
“I will fetch water for you, or wood, or do 
anything that I can do, and I will not charge 
you much. Oh, I can do many things, for I 
have been to the Mission to school.” 

^^Are there many boys here?” asked Walter. 

^^What kind of boys?” questioned Francisco. 
^AVhite boys, or Indian?” 

“Oh, any kind.” 

“Just now there are no white hoys hut you. 
Mayhe some will come. And not many Indians, 
either. Many are gone to Mesa Grande and 
around there, picking berries and cherries, and 
then there will be the grape picking.” 


34 


The Journey — Francisco. 


“Will you play with us sometimes and show 
us places ?’’ continued Walter. 

Francisco laughed. “I do not play much,’^ 
he said, “and there are not places to show. 
You see how it is,” with a swing of his hand 
over the valley. “But I will do what I can.” 

“We are camping down there,” said Mr. Page, 
pointing to the three white tents in the midst 
of the cottonwood grove. 

“You have the best place. In a week you 
could not have got there, for others are com- 
ing soon and would have taken it.” 

“Well, come down, Francisco, and we’ll see 
what we can do,” said Mr. Page. “You look 
like a good boy, and Walter will want a com- 
panion. Good-by for the present.” 

^'Adios/* said Francisco, retracing his steps 
to his ruined dwelling and, the children noticed, 
not once looking back, though they followed him 
with their eyes until he disappeared within the 
door less opening to his home. When they got 
back to camp Charlie was waiting with a dinner 
of fried rabbit, potatoes, fresh tomatoes, and 
melons purchased from the Indians that morn- 
ing. As they sat in the brush dining-room, within 
sound of the pleasant waterfall, around the well- 
spread table, all were unanimous in declaring 
that the viands could not have been surpassed. 


At the Spring, 


35 


CHAPTER III. 

AT THE SPRING. 

SUGGEST that we all take a little siesta/" 
said Aunt Mary after dinner. “We shall feel 
much better for the rest of the day if we do.” 

The children looked at each other. Siestas 
had not entered into their plans at all. 

“We don^t have to, do we, mother?” asked 
Walter. “You know Nellie and I never do 
such a dreadful thing at home.” 

“What do you purpose doing?” inquired 
their father. 

“Oh, we didn’t know,” said Walter. “We 
thought of going down to the springs again and 
watching the people bathe.” 

“They don’t bathe in the pools from which 
they drink, surely,” said Aunt Mary in disgust. 
“Don’t tell me they do that, Walter.” 

“I thought there was another pool,” said 
Walter. “I’m certain I heard them say some- 
thing about washing down there this morning.” 

“Oh, that man was speaking of the laundry 
where the women wash the clothes,” said Mr. 
Page. “He said it was quite interesting to 
watch them.” 


36 


At the Spring. 


Bother said Walter. “I thought there 
was a pool for bathing, and that we might pad- 
dle about in it, just as we used to do at Ti 
Juana. But, anyhow, Nellie and I don^t want 
to take any siesta, do we, Nellie?^’ 

His sister shook her head. ^^Just let’s go out 
and ramble around,” she said. “We’ll find 
something to amuse us.” 

“There is something already,” said Mr. Page, 
as the clear note of a bird broke upon the mid- 
day stillness. Soft and sweet it trilled, then 
loud and shrill, then quivered down to a melan- 
choly note, and again gradually ascended, ter- 
minating in one long, beautiful, slowly-dying 
tremolo. 

*'What can that be?” cried Mrs. Page. “It 
seems almost like an angel’s song. I have never 
heard anything like it.” 

“It is only me — Francisco,” said a boyish 
voice on the outside, while a pair of bright eyes 
peered in between the interstices of the sylvan 
dining-room. 

“Come in, come in!” cried Walter, hurrying 
from his place. “I want mother to see you.” 

“Mother,” he continued, as the boy entered 
slowly, cap in hand, “this is Francisco, our 
friend whom we met near the church this morn- 
ing. Is there anything he can do?” 


At the Spring. 


37 


Mrs. Page extended her slim white hand. 
The boy took it and said : “I can work very well. 
I could fetch water. 

do not believe there is anything you could 
do/^ replied Mrs. Page. “We have a man who 
does all we require. We shall not need any 
carrying of water, I think. I see there are 
hydrants not far away.^’ 

“Oh, but that is not to drink — ^that water. 
It is not so very good,” said Francisco. “But 
farther up, about half a mile, or maybe a little 
more, there is a beautiful spring. That is nice 
and cold and good to drink. Some carry it in 
buckets, but I would fetch it on a little wagon, 
in a barrel. And I can give you another barrel 
in which to keep it. Out there under the larg- 
est pepper tree it would be very good.” 

“Do you hear, Charlie?” asked Mr. Page. 
“Francisco tells us he can bring very good 
drinking water. It will be an excellent plan, 
I think, so let him do it.” 

“Yes,” replied Charlie, appearing from the 
other end of the room. “I was going to ask 
what we should do about drinking water. That 
which comes through the pipe just above here 
is very warm. The hill being so bare is always 
sunny. I’ve seen people bringing that other 
water right along.” 


38 


At the Spring. 


Mr. Page turned to Francisco. “You have 
a horse, then?^^ he asked. 

“Oh, yes; we have two horses. Shall I get 
my wagon? Will you like the water? I can 
bring the barrel along for you.’^ 

“Very well; go and fetch it,’’ said Mr. Page. 

“Oh, father, may I go with him?” pleaded 
Walter. 

“To the spring ? Yes ; if he is willing to take 
you,” replied his father. 

“Yes, I meant to ask. And the little girl 
maybe, too, if she will,” said Francisco. 

“Yes, papa; yes, mamma, let me go,” Nellie 
begged. 

“Very well,” both replied, but Aunt Mary 
said: 

“Don’t you think it rather tomboyish, to use 
a mild word, to go about that way with two 
boys ?” 

“One of them is her brother. Aunt Mary,” 
hastily interjected Walter. “Nellie has always 
played with boys.” 

“It won’t harm the child a bit,” said Mr. 
Page. 

Francisco smiled and said: 

“The horse is very slow. He cannot hurt. 
He is an old one, mine. Once he was turned out 
to die, and I begged for him. So my uncle gave 


At the Spring, 


39 


him. And he helps earn me my living now. 
When you see him I think you will laugh ; but 
he is very good, as I said, my Rosinante.” 

Where did you hear that name?^’ inquired 
Aunt Mary. 

‘^A gentleman told me to call that name to 
my horse. He said there was a story about 
in Spanish.’’ 

^‘Don Quixote,” said Aunt Mary pleasantly. 
^‘Did you ever hear about it?” 

^‘Only that the bones of a horse were once 
coming through the skin,” replied Francisco. 
^‘And so it was with mine. But now he is not 
so bad. I will go quickly and bring the cart.’^ 

Walter looked at his father. 

“Yes, go along,” said Mr. Page. “Nellie 
will wait until you come back.” 

“But about the money — I was forgetting,” 
said Francisco. “Is it too much for every bar- 
rel to pay twenty-five cents?” 

^^Not at all. It is quite reasonable,” said 
Mr. Page. 

“There will be perhaps two every week.” 

“That will be all right.” 

“Very good,” said Francisco. 

The two boys left the tent, beginning a lively 
race with each other at once. Francisco soon 
outdistanced Walter, but magnanimously ref us- 


4P 


At the Spring. 


ing to presume on his superior skill, waited for 
him under an oak tree which stood, beautiful 
and solitary, in the middle of the road. 

“You are a fine runner, Francisco/’ said Wal- 
ter, when he arrived. 

“I was best at the Mission,” the boy replied. 
“At the Fiestas we always run, and, of the boys, 
Juan Palos and me — we most always get the 
prize.” 

“When do you have the Fiesta?” 

“Oh, in October, on the third — ^the Feast of 
San Francisco. It is his church, you see. But 
this year there will not be any, for the people 
will need to save their money if they must go 
away to some other place.” 

“It is too bad that they have to go,” said 
Walter. 

“You think it is true, then ? there is no hope? 
What thinks your father?” 

“He says they will have to leave. But the 
government will find them some other place.” 

“It will be hard,” said the boy, “and it is not 
just. But, if it must be, it must.” 

“I wish I could see a Fiesta. What do they 
have ?” 

“Oh, first Mass and Benediction; and the 
people are married, and the children get bap- 
tized. Afterward they have games, and they 


At the Spring. 


41 


dance. Once, for three years the priest did not 
come, because they would not give up the gam- 
bling.’^ 

^^Do Indians gamble?” asked Walter, in sur- 
prise. 

“Oh, yes, they do, and very much. They 
lose a great deal of money that way. But from 
the whites they have learned it, I believe.” 

Walter did not know what reply to make to 
this assertion, doubtless a true one. They 
walked at a quick pace till they reached the 
ruined adobe, Francisco’s home, behind which 
stood the wagon — ^three or four long, unplaned 
boards set on four wheels. The horse was graz- 
ing some distance away. 

“I will catch Kosinante,” said Francisco, tak- 
ing an armful of hay from a pile. 

“If you are thirsty there is, inside, a clean 
cup, and there at the other end, by the tree, an 
otla with water.” 

Walter felt quite thirsty. Moreover, he was 
somewhat curious to see the inside of a genuine 
Indian dwelling. It seemed very dark to him, 
coming out of the hot, bright sunshine. There 
was a window facing the door, but every pane of 
glass was gone. The sill was so wide as to form 
a very comfortable seat. The thick walls and 
smooth earthen floor made the place feel very 


42 


At the Spring. 


cool. The room contained very little furniture — 
two cots, one at either end ; in the middle a table, 
with clean plates, cups and saucers; also a couple 
of boxes and a pair of broken chairs. The house 
was almost roofless, save for the withered boughs 
which had been laid across the broad, irregular 
openings. Nothing could have been more hum- 
ble ; yet everything was clean and orderly. 

Francisco came with Eosinante as Walter was 
replacing the cup. 

‘‘That is very good water,’^ he said. 

“The same as you will have to drink,” replied 
Francisco. “ See, here is your barrel. I thought 
it better to take but one. I can change twice a 
week. Now I will harness Eosinante.” 

This was soon done ; the barrel was placed on 
the wagon and fastened with a couple of thongs. 
Walter took his place beside Francisco, and they 
rattled away, down the hill. Nellie was on the 
watch; when they reached the tent Francisco 
and Walter got off and told her to take their 
place, saying they would drive her up the hill, 
but that she would have to walk down. “The 
full barrel of water is quite enough for Eosi- 
nante, Francisco says,” explained Walter. “Be- 
sides, if the thongs that tie the barrel to the 
wagon should break, it might fall over on you 
and kill you.” 


At the Spring. 


43 


The whole family stood at the door of the 
large tent to see them off, Nellie gaily waving 
her hand to them. 

^^Is there not some danger that they may fall 
into the boiling spring?” asked Aunt Mary, 
anxiously, as they passed out of sight. 

Aunt Mary was the widow o-f Mr. Page’s 
uncle. He could not help smiling, occasionally, 
at her causeless fears. 

“I’m afraid you will not enjoy your trip 
unless you try to be less fearful of accidents,” 
he said. “They are not going in the direction 
of the hot springs. However, they would not 
be injured if they did fall in. They could clam- 
ber out at once. You must come down with me 
after a while to see the springs.” 

“I think I shall wait until Martha is able to 
go,” said Aunt Mary; “perhaps to-morrow. If 
the odor when one is near is any worse, or even 
as bad, as the whiffs we get of it here, I should 
not think people could either drink the water or 
bathe in it.” 

“One gets to like it after a while,” said Mr. 
Page. “I have heard that after a sojourn here 
people can not bear to drink cold water for some 
time.” 

“I am already longing for a cool drink,” said 
his wife. 


44 


At the Spring, 


^^The children will not be gone very long, I 
think, rejoined her husband. 

The trio were enjoying themselves very much 
at that moment. Francisco was hailed by sev- 
eral persons with the reminder that their water- 
barrels were almost empty, and to each demand 
he replied courteously that he would attend to 
it. Turning off from the road, they crossed the 
path which led to the pools, and were soon on 
a rough, uneven highway, stony and bleak. A 
few moments brought them to a sharp divide, 
which they skirted for some distance till they 
came to a place where the steep sides were worn 
away by wagon wheels. On the other side of 
this canon everything was green and luxuriant, 
in remarkable contrast to the ground they had 
just left. A well-worn trail wound in and out 
among the trees, which grew closer together as 
they ascended the verdant slope. A tiny stream, 
seemingly not broader than a silver ribbon, tric- 
kled along to meet them. 

^^Now we are there,” said Francisco, at length, 
pausing under the shade of a magnificent oak 
tree. 

“Isn’t it lovely!” cried Nellie, springing from 
the wagon. 

To the left, from a granite boulder, a living 
stream of water was trickling, forming a minia- 


At the Spring. 


45 


ture pool. Francisco, with great dexterity, 
steered his wagon beneath the stream in such 
a position that the water would flow into the 
upright barrel. 

^'Let us go now a little while the water 
is filling, and look about,” he said to the 
children. ^^It is very pretty here.” And so it 
was. 

They climbed up the bank, pushing the fra- 
grant bushes aside, and came suddenly upon a 
broad plateau of many acres, dotted at intervals 
wdth splendid forest trees. In the distance the 
rugged, blue mountains stretched along the 
horizon. All was radiant, still, and incompar- 
ably lovely. 

The children ran about for a time, then seated 
themselves under one of the massive trees. Pres- 
ently they heard a crashing noise in the bushes, 
and a red head appeared. In a moment they 
saw that it belonged to a boy about Walter’s age, 
a most ungainly and unattractive-looking per- 
son. His eyes were small and close together, 
his teeth uneven and protruding. 

Hello !” he cried as he saw Walter and Nel- 
lie; then, catching sight of Francisco, he made 
a horrible face. 

The Indian boy looked at him calmly, but 
said nothing. 


46 


At the Spring. 


Hello!” he repeated, throwing himself on 
the ground beside Walter. 

“Hello!” responded Walter, coolly. He did 
not like the aspect of the newcomer any more 
than he did his attitude toward Francisco. 

“When did you get here?” inquired the red- 
haired boy, “and how long are you going to 
stay ?” 

“We came this morning, and we may stay all 
summer,” replied Walter. 

The boy edged nearer him. Francisco got up 
and walked away, followed by Nellie. 

“Isn’t he horrid?” she said when they got 
out of hearing-distance. 

“Never mind. I will tell you after,” said 
Francisco, “when he is gone. I do not care 
what he will say about me. If you like, I will 
make you a staff. It is easier to walk up and 
down these hills with one.” 

“I’d rather you would make one for mamma,” 
said Nellie. 

“I will make for her one, too.” 

“I will make for her one-two,” said a mocking 
voice behind them. “You can’t speak English 
— ^you can’t. Why don’t you talk Indian ?” 

Francisco turned sharply around. Walter 
and the unwelcome visitor were just behind 
them, Walter evidently bent on quitting him. 


At the Spring. 


47 


I talked Indian you could not understand 
me,’^ said Francisco, pausing squarely in front 
of the red-haired tormentor; “but if I knock 
you down Indian, then perhaps you will under- 
stand.’’ 

“Oh, boys, don’t fight,” began Nellie, in 
alarm. “Papa will never let us come out here 
again if you do. Please, boys.” 

“He dasn’t fight. He’s afraid. He had to 
promise he wouldn’t. His priest won’t let him, 
he won’t. He’s an old Catholic, he is.” 

“So are we Catholics,” cried Walter, pausing 
and setting his feet squarely apart. “We all are 
Catholics.” 

“Like that Indian?” scornfully inquired the 
other, pointing to Francisco, who now came, 
with hashing eyes, closer to Walter. 

“Yes, like that Indian,” Walter replied, un- 
abashed. “Who’s meddling with you? Get off 
here this minute, or I’ll make you.” 

“Boys, boys,” pleaded Nellie again, “please 
don’t fight. Let him go.” 

“I’ve got as good a right, here as any of you 
old Catholics,” sneered their antagonist ; but it 
was noticeable that he gradually backed away as 
he spoke. 

Once more he made a repulsive face; then he 
began to sing, in a nasal voice : 


48 


At the Spring. 


Indian, Indian, never die — 

Yellow skin and mean eye, 

Black 

He did not finish the stanza. Francisco 
sprang forward, seized him about the waist, and 
rolled him down the hank. 

“ There ! Finish your song where no one can 
hear it but yourself,’’ said the Indian, calmly 
returning to his companions. Shouts of anger, 
followed by whimpers of pain, came up from 
below. 

^^Oh, Francisco,” exclaimed Nellie, “if you 
haven’t hurt him very much, I think I am 
glad.” 

“Hurt him !” echoed Walter. “That wouldn’t 
hurt a fiy — such an easy setting-down as he 
got.” 

“I did not hurt him, and I would not. I 
was not so angry with him, as that he makes 
me tired. I do not like to see him where I am. 
He might have followed us for a long time else.” 

“But maybe he’ll be waiting for us down there 
to fight,” said Nellie. 

“No, he will not,” answered the Indian boy. 
“He is a coward. He will go off home as quickly 
as he can. And then, maybe, some day when T 
am passing where I can not see him, he will 


The Missionary, 


49 


throw a stone. Oh, I know him very well. 
What did he say to yon, Walter, when we walked 
away 

^‘He said: ‘Do yon play with Indians f ’’ 
“And what did yon say 
“ ‘Go away — no one asked yon to come 
here,’ I said. Then I got np and he followed 
me.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE MISSIONARY. 

“Ah, the water overflows,” said Francisco, as 
they once more came in sight of the spring. He 
hnrried, down the bank, tnrned the horse ronnd, 
tightened the thongs holding the barrel so that 
it wonld stand firmly on the wagon, and the 
boys began to retrace their steps. 

As soon as they were on level gronnd again, 
Francisco, with the reins in his hand, the other 
two walking beside him, pointed to a frame 
dwelling a little removed from the others at the 
top of a little hill. 

“You see that house?” he said. “It is where 


50 


The Missionary. 


he lives — that boy. He came last month, with 
his mother and sister. They tell that the lady 
is a missionary from India. Have yon heard 
of women doing like that 

He looked earnestly at the two children, 
awaiting their reply. 

“In the Protestant churches they do send 
women to far countries as missionaries,’’ re- 
joined Walter. 

“That is funny,” replied Francisco, reflect- 
ingly. “It may be well, if they are savages in 
India; but here we do not want them, I think.” 

“Are they here to convert the Indians ?” asked 
Nellie. 

“For the good waters, they say — ^but maybe, 
too, for other things. Oh, I tell you, we have 
plenty of such people in the summer. But they 
can not hurt very much. 

“One day I was going for water, just like 
now,” he continued. “The horse I could not 
find. After a while I saw this boy riding him 
bareback, and I said to him: ^You ride pretty 
well, but it is my horse, and I want him !’ But 
he made one of his faces, and said he would not 
get off, and called me a dirty Indian. Then I 
pulled him off, and he struck me. After that 
I knocked him down, and my uncle came out 
from the house and said it was wrong to do 


The Missionary. 


51 


so — that it was never known that the Indians 
quarreled with the whites at the Springs. So 
then I made my excuse to the boy and promised 
I would not quarrel again; but my uncle said 
to him that he must not take my horse again. 
And then he mocked my uncle ; and I was going 
to hit him, but my uncle held me, and he said : 
^Go away, boy. You are not a good boy.^ ’’ 

And then what did he do asked Walter. 

^‘He put out his tongue, and just as he did 
so a lady came from around the corner by the 
church. She stopped and said: ^My son, that 
is not polite. You must not let the savages 
teach you how to behave.^ 

“I^m sure you got angry again then, didn’t 
you?” said Walter. 

^^Well, I did, and my uncle a little, too. He 
spoke for me. He said we were not savages, but 
Christian people. As he was speaking, that boy 
had picked up a stone, and, sneaking behind my 
uncle, he hit him in the back of the head. Once 
more I was going to fight with him, but my 
uncle took my arm, and he said: Tromise me 
you will not strike that boy, either now or ever !’ 
I promised, and we went away and left them. 
That is all — except that sometimes, when he sees 
me, he tries very hard to make me angry.” 

^^He’d better not talk very much to me,” said 


52 


The Missionary. 


Walter. not afraid of him. If I gave him 

one good lamming, I guess he’d stop.” 

^^You must not think of quarreling with him, 
Walter,” said Nellie. 

sha’n’t, if he lets me alone,” her brother 
replied. “But if he turns out to be a nagger, 
I’ll settle him, once and for all.” 

“Would you like to see the Lavenderia?^' 
asked Francisco, as a company of Indian women 
passed them with huge bundles thrown across 
their shoulders. 

“What is that?” Nellie inquired. 

“What you call washing-house — ^laundry,” re- 
plied the boy. “They are going now to wash. 
All day long, from early, early morning, they 
come. For so it must be. They have to wash 
the clothes, but all cannot do it at once ; so one 
week a few come in the early morning, and 
others later; and the next week the late ones 
come first. But always, except on Sunday, until 
night they are washing.” 

“Shall we leave the water here and go now?” 
asked Nellie. 

“I think not,” replied Francisco. “It is 
better first to leave the water at your camp; 
then you can sit on the wagon again, and your 
brother and I will walk beside.” 

“Let’s hurry up, then,” said Nellie. “I just 


The Missionary. 


S3 


love to watch those women as they trot along. 
But why don^t the men help them carry those 
heavy bundles.” 

Francisco regarded her for a moment with 
astonishment. 

Carry clothes to the wash?” he said. “It is 
not men^s work — that.” 

Nellie did not reply. She was not going to 
quarrel with Francisco. But in her kind little 
heart she thought the noble Indian wanting in 
chivalry to the weaker sex. 

Everyone at the camp was glad to see them ; 
they had been gone exactly an hour and a half. 

“You can’t make an Indian hurry,” Charlie 
had said when Mrs. Page began to grow uneasy. 
“Nothing can happen to the young folk; the boy 
is all right, and they’re nothing but children.” 

Franscico led the horse to the back of the 
large tent, and with Charlie’s assistance placed 
the barrel under the pepper tree; a gourd-dipper 
was produced from Charlie’s countless stores, 
and everyone had a drink of the delightful, cool 
M’ater. 

“If you will take a piece of cheese-cloth,” said 
Francisco, “and, running a string through, tie 
it around the top of the barrel, wetting it al- 
ways, it will keep cool the water, and the flies 
away.” 


54 


The Missionary. 


very good idea, Francisco,^’ said Aunt 
Mary, preparing to go in search of the cheese- 
cloth, needle, and tape, at once. 

“And now, if we may, I will take them to 
see the Lavenderia,’^ said the Indian boy. “They 
wish to- look at the washing going on/’ 

“I don’t care so much for it, but Nellie does,” 
said Walter. 

“You do so — every bit as much as I do — 
Walter,” rejoined Nellie. “Only you think it’s 
like a girl to go and see them washing.” 

“No; it isn’t that,” said Walter, when every- 
body had finished laughing. “But maybe they 
won’t like our looking at them.” 

“They are probably used to it by this time,” 
said Mr. Page. “People have been watching 
them for many years.” 

Up and down the hills they clattered briskly 
once more with the wagon, Eosinante doing her 
best to make a record for speed, with Nellie be- 
hind her. When they reached the top of the 
hill above the first spring, they left the wagon 
and scrambled down the steep, rocky pathway. 
At some little distance from the others, a sepa- 
rate pool for washing had been roofed over very 
picturesquely. It reminded one of old pictures of 
Hygeian temples. The sides were open, allow- 
ing the looker-on to see the washerwomen, squat- 


The Missionary. 


55 


ting on their heels, soaping the clothes or lean- 
ing over the steaming water. Young and old, 
to the number of perhaps a dozen, they worked 
and chattered, apparently altogether oblivious 
of those who regarded them. 

Flat granite slabs served them for wash- 
boards. Vigorously, indeed, did they ply their 
arms. Some were rinsing, a. few wringing out, 
and others spreading the garments, white as 
snow, either on the ground or on the straggling 
bushes in the vicinity. 

“I could watch them forever,^’ said Nellie, 
when Walter, having made a little journey 
around the place with Francisco, told her he 
thought they should be going campward. “I’m 
going to ask mamma to let me come down here 
to-morrow and wash some napkins.” 

“Would they allow her to wash there?” asked 
Walter. 

“Yes, if she would like; anyone can,” said 
Francisco. “But always, I think, the white 
people come about from ten to twelve in the 
morning.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t like that,” said Nellie. “I 
want to go with the Indians and wash.” 

“Maybe you can do that, too,” said Francisco. 
“Some time, when my cousin Leonidas is com- 
ing, I will ask that you may go along.” 


56 


The Missionary, 


^‘You must not forget it, Francisco,” said 
Yellie, reluctantly tearing herself away. 

^^Hi! hi! Chrysantha!” called Francisco to 
an old woman who waved her hand at them as 
they passed. Then he said something in Span- 
ish. The old woman spoke to her companions. 
They all laughed merrily, nodding pleasantly to 
the children, and the old woman called out 
something several times to Francisco. 

“What do they mean? What is she saying?” 
asked Nellie, looking back at them shyly. 

“They are telling me you will be welcome to 
wash with them whenever you wish,” said the 
boy. “They like you.” 

Arrived at the tent, Nellie admitted that she 
was tired. But Walter begged to be allowed to 
go back on the wagon with Francisco, who had 
to fetch some eggs to a lady in the village and 
draw some more water before evening. 

Rosinante jogging leisurely along, they soon 
came in sight of the old adobe. The figure of 
a woman standing in the rear of the church at 
once attracted the attention of Francisco. 

“It is the missionary lady!” he exclaimed. 
“It is the mother of William. She has come 
to say something about what has happened. 
How I wish she would stay away !” 

The woman came forward to meet them. She 


The Missionary. 


S7 


was smiling ; evidently she had not yet had an 
interview with her hopeful son. 

The boys exchanged glances. Francisco 
breathed more freely. 

am pleased to see that yon are in a better 
humor to-day/’ she said sweetly. “And who is 
your companion ?” 

“My name is Walter Page/’ was the response. 
“I live in San Diego.” 

“Oh, do you? I have a dear friend there^ — 
the Eeverend Mr. Binder. At present he is not 
serving any church. Like myself, he has been a 
missionary, and his health failed. Perhaps you 
have met him, my boy.” 

“I don’t know any ministers,” said Walter, 
rather brusquely. “We go to the Catholic 
church.” 

The lady’s face grew more stern. She looked 
from one boy to the other. 

“You never go to Sunday-school, then,” she 
said in regretful tones, but as if stating an 
undeniable fact. 

“I go every Sunday,” said Walter. 

“Does your priest allow it?” 

“He teaches us,” rejoined Walter. 

“That must be something new — something 
entirely new.” 

Walter made no reply. 


58 


The Missionary. 


was my purpose, iu coming here, to estab- 
lish a Sunday-school,’^ the missionary continued, 
true to her avocation. saw this boy and 
marked him,” pointing to Francisco. “He 
looked intelligent, as though the others might 
follow his lead. But unfortunately he got into 
an altercation with my son, and I have taken 
no further steps with him.” 

Walter looked down, embarrassed upon hear- 
ing himself addressed personally. He hoped she 
was not going to ask him to be a leader. He 
would in that case tell her something, he now 
thought. 

“It is difficult, very difficult, to accomplish 
anything. The mothers and fathers are indif- 
ferent, if not rude — ^the children the same.” 

Neither of the boys made a reply. 

“The teacher tells me she has been here 
twelve years,” went on the missionary, after 
waiting in vain for a remark. Her voice now 
began to lose its sweet accents and to savor of 
asperity. 

“Twelve years — and she has not been able to 
make any impression — in a Christian way. She 
thinks you are all very good, but you cling to 
your old beliefs.” 

“And why not, please?” asked Francisco. 
“Why should we not keep to our own faith? 


The Missionary. 


59 


Why do they give us teachers who are not of 
our religion? How many go there to that 
school pointing to the building, not far away. 
‘‘Maybe twenty out of seventy-five children. To 
the Mission go the others, where they be- 
long ’’ 

“I think it is very cruel in the priests to 
insist on sending those children nearly a hun- 
dred miles from their parents to the Mission,” 
said William^s mother, growing warmer with 
every word. 

“And the Indians think it is right — right to 
send them to the Mission, where they will learn 
their religion,” answered Francisco with equal 
warmth. “The teacher is very good and kind, 
and the people are grateful to her for all she 
does, but if she should stay here twelve years 
longer, they will never give up what the Fathers 
have taught them.” 

“It is well, it is very well, my poor child,” 
rejoined the missionary, compassionately, “that 
all whom she does teach are not so high-tempered 
as you are. What a time there would be in the 
school !” 

“Why do you not leave us alone?” cried 
Francisco. “Do we trouble you? Do we try 
to make Catholics of you who come to our home 
here? Why do you not leave us alone?” 


6o 


The Missionary. 


Walter was alarmed. He looked at his com- 
panion in surprise. The missionary drew back. 

“Do not become violent,” she said. “In 
India the natives were at least respectful. I 
wonder that your parents are not mo-re careful 
of you than they are,” she went on, turning to 
Walter. “They should not allow you to asso- 
ciate with such a rude person.” 

The boy’s cheek flushed; he turned away 
without replying. 

“Come, Francisco,” he said in a low tone, 
pulling his companion by the sleeve. “Come; 
let us go into the house.” 

“I do not wonder you should wish to go away, 
my boy. You are probably ashamed of the con- 
duct of your friend. I hope, at least, that you 
are.” 

“I am not ashamed,” said Walter. “Neither 
of us is. We have no reason to be ashamed.” 

“You have been badly brought up,” continued 
their tormentor. “You have been badly brought 
up — ^very badly.” 

They waited to hear no more, but walked qui- 
etly onward until they found shelter within the 
crumbling doorway of the brown, smoky adobe. 


At Church. 


6i 


CHAPTEK V. 

AT CHURCH. 

True to his Indian nature, Francisco made 
no further allusion to the episode with the mis- 
sionary. After unharnessing Kosinante, he began 
searching for eggs. When he and Walter had 
found a couple of dozen, he placed them in an 
old tin pail and said : 

will let the horse rest now for an hour, 
and then I must go to the spring for a barrel 
of water again. But first, if you like to come 
with me, I will take these eggs to the lady that 
lives in the doctor’s house.’’ 

Have you a doctor here?” asked Walter. 

^‘Not now,” Francisco hastened to say. ^^But 
once, for three years, we had. There was also 
a woman they called a matron to teach our 
women to sew and keep house. How funny that 
was — how funny ! They would not give us our 
own teachers — ^the Sisters, or some Catholics. 
They sent us a teacher — who is kind, but who 
hates the Catholic religion — and another man 
and woman, the doctor and matron, who had 
nothing at all to do to earn their good salary 
of seventy-five dollars a month. It was too 


62 


At Church. 


plain — ^that fraud — my uncle said, and so they 
took them away. But altogether they cost as 
much as would have kept ten sisters in the 
place.’’ 

They were passing the church now, and Wal- 
ter said : 

^‘See, Francisco, the window is open. It was 
not when my father and Nellie and I came up 
this morning.” 

^^You did not open it?” asked the Indian 
boy, setting down his pail. 

“No, indeed,” replied Walter. “We would 
not do such a thing.” 

“It is kept always shut — ^the church,” . said 
Francisco. “I must look in.” 

He leaned across the sill; then, after lightly 
vaulting over, he said : 

“Who has done this ?” 

“What?” eagerly inquired Walter, following 
him. 

Francisco pointed to the walls. At regular 
intervals, where the stations are usually hung, 
colored scriptural prints had been placed, each 
fastened with a large pin, as they were un- 
framed. They were scenes from the New Tes- 
tament, in themselves rather pretty, and not 
inappropriate as illustrations of texts of Scrip- 
ture. 


At Church. 


63 


^^They are pretty, but they are not suitable 
for the stations/’ said Walter, 

think it must be the missionary woman 
who has done this,” said Francisco. will not 
take them down. I will ask some older person 
to do so. Perhaps my uncle will be home for 
Sunday. She did not do it for good, I am 
sure.” 

Perhaps she did, Francisco,” said Walter. 
^^We ought not to be too hard on her.” 

Maybe; but I know them. We shall see. 
Anyhow, it is not right for her to come into the 
church by the window like a thief. She knew 
very well, I think, that we would not want her 
to hang her pictures around.” 

Closing the window again, Francisco took up 
his pail of eggs. The boys parted under the 
old oak, Walter fearing his father and mother 
would not like him to remain away longer. 

He learned that his mother had taken her 
first hot bath and was feeling quite well,” she 
said. The older people were very much inter- 
ested in his recital of the encounter with the 
missionary, but reproved Walter for having an- 
swered her as he had done. 

^^But, papa,” he said, couldn’t help it. 
I had to say something, and I wasn’t going to 
give in to her by acting as if we were wrong 


64 


At Church. 


or that I was ashamed of being a Catholic. You 
would not have wished me to do that.” 

There was reason in his argument the elders 
admitted. His father added, however, that it 
was always better to steer clear of such persons 
if possible. 

And so the day, so full of incident, closed. 
Supper was hardly over before the tired children 
went to rest. 

So day succeeded day in this primitive moun- 
tain village. The children gradually became ac- 
quainted with the Indians, who were very kind 
to them. Hellie now went regularly to the 
Lavenderia with handkerchiefs and napkins, and 
the Indian women willingly made a place for 
her. They laughingly watched her attempts at 
washing, which was generally accomplished for 
her by one or another of them in the end. The 
gold medal of the Immaculate Conception, 
which she wore attached to a thin chain around 
her neck, was the sign of a bond of kinship 
between them. 

On Sunday morning at eight o’clock the 
sweet, pure tones of the church-bell rang out 
upon the air, sounding singularly beautiful 
through the clear, still atmosphere. 

There will not be Mass to-day, Walter?” 
inquired Mr. Page of his son, whose intimacy 


At Church. 


6S 

with Francisco he thought warranted him well 
posted in the affairs of the village. 

^^No, sir/’ was the reply. Mauri cio, 

Francisco’s uncle, has returned, he will say tlie 
prayers, and if he hasn’t, someone else will.” 

‘^We must go, at any rate,” said his father. 
^‘It will be, I imagine, both devotional and in- 
teresting to assist at the prayers.” 

Mrs. Page was unable to walk so far. Aunt 
Mary, glad of an excuse for avoiding close prox- 
imity to the Indians, toward whom she had an 
aversion which she could not conquer, decided to 
remain at home to keep her company. 

From all directions groups of Indians — the 
women and children cleanly, if gaudily, attired 
— were wending their way to the church. The 
last bell began to ring as they climbed the steep 
elevation on top of which it stood. The people 
sat around the entrance; on the ground several 
very old women were crouched, motionless and 
patient. 

Francisco came from the inside and opened 
wide the door. The congregation poured in — 
the men on one side, the women on the other. 
Nearly all the latter had shawls over their 
heads, few being without a tinge of red in their 
costumes. After Francisco had lighted two can- 
dles on the altar, an old woman left her place 


66 


At Church. 


and went forward, kneeling on the steps of the 
little sanctuary. She recited the Eosary in 
Spanish, the people responding in low but dis- 
tinct and reverent tones. After she had said 
one decade, she began another, reversing the 
prayers, saying the “Holy Mary,” first, the 
people answering with the “Hail, Mary.” The 
third decade was repeated in the usual manner, 
the fourth like the second. At the fifth, instead 
of praying as before, she lowered her voice to a 
sweet, monotonous chant. 

“Hios te salve, Maria , she sang, and the 
others answered in the same fashion, ^"Santa 
Maria, Madre de Dios'* till the decade was 
ended. It was all very strange and beautiful; 
the sweet voices of the dark-skinned worshipers, 
deprived of their priests and teachers, coming 
Sunday after Sunday thus to preserve and per- 
petuate the services of their religion. Other 
prayers, also in Spanish, were said, and the old 
woman returned to her place. 

Francisco was about to extinguish the candles, 
when the door of the sacristy opened, and a tall, 
finely-formed Indian, about fifty years of age, 
issued forth. The boy stepped aside; the new- 
comer advanced to the railing. His sharp eyes 
seemed to rest at once upon the pictures which 
had been placed on the walls during the pre- 


At Church. 


67 


ceding week. He addressed the people in Span- 
ish; then, pointing to the pictures, asked in 
English : 

^^Who can tell the person who has hung those 
pictures around the walls of the church?’’ 

No one answered. The Indians, whispering 
among themselves, made various gestures of dis- 
approval. 

^‘You will all see that although they are very 
good pictures,”' he continued, ^Hhey are not for 
our church. We do not need them. We have 
here already the Sacred Hearts of Our Lord and 
His Mother; a kind lady would have given us 
also the stations, but for the removal which we 
must soon make from this — our home.” 

Here those of his hearers who understood 
English — all the younger people and many 
of the others — made sorrowful gestures. Some 
of them uttered a peculiar wailing sound. 

^Ht will be now our duty to find who has 
put those pictures where they are, and give them 
back to the person who placed them.” 

Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, the 
Indian turned to Francisco. 

^^Have you loaned the key to someone this 
week?” he inquired. 

^^No, uncle,” replied the boy, “I have not 
given it to anyone; but somebody has come in 


68 


At Church, 


through the window : one day I found it open.’^ 
So saying, he glanced toward the door where 
some white persons were seated. 

At this point a woman arose and stepped 
about midway up the aisle. 

‘^The missionary lady/’ whispered Walter to 
his father. ^^Now there will be a fuss.” 

“I wish to state,” said the woman, in tones 
that could be distinctly heard all through the 
church, “I wish to state that I placed those 
heautiful pictures where they are. I intended 
to offer them to the person whom they call ^the 
priest,’ hoping that he would hang them for the 
benefit of the congregation, wherever he pleased. 
Hearing he was absent, I took the liberty of 
entering, and pinning them above the crosses, 
which I consider superstitious emblems.” 

“Francisco,” said the tall Indian, “remove 
from the wall those pictures, and give them to 
the lady. 

“Pedro,” he continued, addressing a boy close 
by, “you take down on one side, so that it will be 
quicker.” 

“But, my good man,” began the missionary, 
“if you do not wish to let them stay where they 
are, at least keep them and hang them where 
you will.” 

“We thank you, madam, for your kindness,” 


At Church. 69 

said the Indian, “but we do not, as I said, need 
them. Wediave already our own.’’ 

Francisco and Pedro with lightning celerity 
had already removed the unwelcome prints and 
were offering them to the would-be donor. 
Reluctantly receiving them, she went slowly 
back to her seat, near the door, followed by 
glances from the Indians which would have 
alarmed Aunt Mary. 

When the congregation dispersed, the mem- 
bers found the missionary awaiting them at the 
threshold. She proffered them the pictures as 
they came out, but the Indians rejected them. 
Some looked at her stolidly and passed on as 
though they did not see her; others merely 
shook their heads, but not one accepted a pic- 
ture. Mr. Page, with his children, had stopped 
near the entrance, wishing to speak to Fran- 
cisco’s uncle. 

“Tell me, sir,” said the “missionary lady,” 
“why these people refuse the prints I have offer- 
ed them ? They should, it seems to me, be very 
grateful, instead of rejecting them in so surly 
a manner. I confess they are a mystery to me.” 

“Probably they were not pleased with your 
methods,” replied Mr. Page, coldly. “You never 
see Catholics forcing their beliefs or customs on 
Protestants in this manner.” 


70 


At Church. 


forgot, sir, that you were likely to be one 
of them,’^ replied the amiable missionary, dart- 
' ing a glance of displeasure at Walter, who stood 
beside his father. The incident ended her mis- 
sionary labors in the village of the Cupehos. 
Thenceforward she transferred her efforts to 
other fields, farther from home. But the con- 
sequences were more far-reaching than anyone 
could have foreseen. 

Mr. Page waited until Francisco came out, 
followed by his uncle. 

‘^This is my uncle,’’ said the boy. “These 
are good Catholics,” he continued, pointing to 
the group. 

The Indian extended his hand. 

“I came to-day a little late,” he said, “but 
not too late, I think, to make one more person 
see that we do not want their tracts or their 
pictures or their preachings. They may do what 
they will, but we are Catholics to the end — ex- 
cept, perhaps, some few who find later they 
would have been better oft to remain as they 
were. Did any of our people take pictures ?” 

“Not one,” said Mr. Page. “It was quite 
interesting to see how utterly they ignored 
them.” 

“That is good,” murmured Mauricio. “That 
finished it.” 


At Church. 


71 


wanted to ask/^ said Mr. Page, while the 
children strolled slowly away together, ^^why 
they say the Eosary in that way, reversing the 
prayers at every other decade, and why they 
finish it in a chant. It is very odd, but exceed- 
ingly beautiful.^’ 

believe they change the prayers as they 
do because in the beginning the Fathers found 
it helped them in teaching the ^Hail, Mary,’ 
and ^Holy Mary.’ You see, when the Father 
said always the *Dios te salve/ or, the ‘Hail, 
Mary,’ as you call it, the people did not learn it 
so well as when they said it themselves. And 
for the chanting — that was like a hymn at the 
end.” 

“I see,” said Mr. Page. “And I think you 
did exactly as you should have done with regard 
to that officious woman. I am glad to have my 
children know your nephew. He is a good boy, 
and very bright. You ought to be proud of 
him.” 

“So far he is very good,” rejoined Mauricio. 
“He is also very smart for one who has not 
been long at school. We have some land here; 
together we make a living, with what we get 
from the visitors. One of those houses over 
there belongs to me. In the summer I lease it; 
in the winter we go back to it again. But this 


72 


At Church. 


will end soon. There is no more hope for us; 
we must go.^’ 

seems to be inevitable,” said Mr. Page. 

^Mt is sad for all of us, but worse for the 
old people. Some of them will not believe it. 
Some of them say they will not go, but will 
lie down and die on the roadside. It is very sad. 
Next week there is to be a Junta. But what 
good will that do ?” 

“What do you mean by a JuntaV^ inquired 
Mr. Page, who was not familiar with Spanish. 

“A meeting of the Indians and the white 
men who have been appointed to find another 
place for us. But I can not see what good it 
will do.” 

“Perhaps the Indians can then say what place 
they would prefer.’’ 

“That, they will never say, I am sure,” said 
Mauricio. “They want no home but this.” 

Three or four boys now appeared above the 
slope of the hill. William, in the lead, had a 
gun in his hand. 

“We’ve been driving rabbits,” he said as they 
passed. “Some day we’ll have better luck — and 
it won’t be long, either — driving the Indians 
away from Warner’s.” 

“You are a very rude boy,” said Mr. Page. 

“I’m not an old Catholic sneered the 


Dionysio and Margarita. 


7Z 


urchin, filliping a small stone directly at Mau- 
ricio, who made a step forward. 

^^We have a ciiartel* here, youngster,’^ he 
said. “For a long time it has been empty; we 
are a peaceful people. But we can have unruly 
persons put into that cuartel if we wish. Be 
careful, youngster ; be careful. 

The threat seemed to be effectual. The boys 
hurried down the hill. Bidding Mauricio and 
Francisco good-day, Mr. Page and his children 
walked slowly homeward. 


CHAPTER VI. 

DIONYSIO AND MARGARITA. 

The Pages had noticed a good-looking Indian 
boy, perhaps eighteen or nineteen years of age, 
riding about on a fine horse. He wore a dark 
blue uniform trimmed with red ; his hat was of 
good Mexican straw; he wore also a stiff white 
shirt-collar. This boy seemed to live on horse- 
back. He was always alone. Either he held 
aloof from the others, or they did not care for 
his company. 

* Jail. 


74 


Dionysio and Margarita. 


“Who is that?’’ asked Walter of Francisco 
one morning as they were arranging the water- 
barrel nnder the pepper tree. 

Francisco looked around. 

“Oh, that is Arturo, the son of Juan Pablo,” 
he said. 

“And who is Juan Pablo?” 

“The rich man of Cupa,” answered Fran- 
cisco. “ He owns many houses here. He married 
the daughter of the old Captain.” 

“What Captain?” 

“That is how we call the chief,” said Fran- 
cisco. “Juan Pablo is not a Cupa Indian, but 
he has lived here since he was a child. Arturo 
is his son.” 

“And that is why he is better dressed than the 
others, and goes riding about by himself ?” 

“Oh, no. Formerly he was not deemed any 
better than others — ^nor was he different. That 
is the uniform of Carlisle he wears. He goes 
to school now at Carlisle.” 

“Do you mean Carlisle, Pennsylvania?” asked 
Mr. Page, who had been listening to the con- 
versation from where he sat reading under the 
ramada. 

“Yes; he was one of those who went to the 
schoolhouse on the hill. The teacher thought 
he was a very smart boy, and she talked and 


Dionysio and Margarita. 


75 


talked with his father to let him go to the 
Indian school at Carlisle. He comes home dur- 
ing the vacation, and is too fine for the others. 
At least, that is what they say. I have found 
him well enough. I think it is the others who 
imagine he is different.’^ 

^‘What will he do when his schooldays are 
over?’^ inquired Mr. Page. 

Francisco shrugged his shoulders. 

“That I can not tell,’’ he said. “There was 
Adriana. She, too, went to Carlisle. She had 
only her mother. When she came back to Cupa 
she was unhappy. She could not bear the life 
here after having bathtubs lined with white 
porcelain at Carlisle.” 

Mr. Page laughed. 

“Is that what she said ?” he asked. 

“ Oh, yes ; that and many other things. Two 
years she was at Carlisle without coming back. 
Her mother was very poor — living in a brush- 
house that summer, as always, renting her own 
adobe for the season that she might have some- 
thing for the winter. Adriana cried all the 
time. The next year she did not come back, nor 
the next. When it was time for school to be 
over, she wrote that she would stay in Philadel- 
phia. Then her mother died — of sorrow.” 

“And what became of Adriana?” 


76 


Dionysio and Margarita. 


“Who can tell that? No one knows. She 
has not written. 

“Are there any others?’’ asked Mr. Page. 

“Well, there is Dionysio, who will fetch you 
the wood to-day. He can tell you what he thinks 
of the Indian school at Carlisle.” 

Mr. Page had become interested, Walter and 
Nellie equally so. When the wood arrived they 
found the driver of the wagon an intelligent- 
looking youth about the age of Arturo, perhaps 
a little older. 

“They tell me you have been a student at 
Carlisle,” said Mr. Page after he had paid him. 

“Yes, sir. I spent four years there,” replied 
the boy, very politely. 

“Of what benefit has it been to you?” in- 
quired Mr. Page. 

“No benefit, that I can see,” was the reply. 

“'Has it made you discontented?” 

“At first — ^yes; but not now. I am satisfied.” 

“What do you do for your living?” 

“What they all do.” 

“Laboring work, you mean?” 

“Laboring work — harvesting, ploughing, 
grape picking — any thing that I can do.” 

“What advantage, then, is your having been 
at Carlisle?” 

“None. There they teach us many things. 


Dionysio and Margarita. 


77 


but seldom can an Indian get work in the large 
cities. A white man is always given the first 
chance; that is natural. I learned wood-carv- 
ing. Perhaps if I went far away and waited 
long I might have been able to work at my 
trade ; but my old grandfather and grandmother 
were alone here with my little sister. How 
could I stay away from them? So here I am, 
and here I will stay. It is my home ; I like it 
best.^'^ 

^Ht is well that you look at it in that way if 
it must be so. It appears to me there are hun- 
dreds of thousands uselessly spent in the In- 
dian schools every year.’’ 

“That is very true,”- said the young man. 
“How much better to have them on the reser- 
vations, where are all the people together, where 
all could help each other and learn from each 
other. What a fertile soil is this, for instance. 
How much could be done here ! There are many 
places like this. But now — ^it is a bad job, a 
very bad job.” 

“I agree with you,” said Mr. Page. “It is a 
very bad job.” 

“I tell you,” said the boy, “there are three 
kinds of Indians who come from those schools. 
One is ashamed of his people and will not live 
with them any longer. There is not much for 


78 


Dionysio and Margarita. 


him to do anywhere, so he rambles about from 
place to place. The whites despise him ; for his 
own people he has lost all his good heart. He 
dies after awhile, always a» sot and a thief. 
Tliere is another kind of Indian. He is dis- 
contented because he has been out in the world 
that does not want him. He comes back and 
remains with his people; but what he has seen 
and done when away makes him not content 
with his home. Always there is sorrow in his 
heart while he lives. If they had not taken him 
away from his home he would have remained 
content. Do I not say right — according to your 
belief?” 

^^Yes,” said Mr. Page, “you do.” 

“And there is still another kind — ^the lazy 
one who comes home and sneers at everything, 
and yet is too lazy to go away and look for 
something better. Pretty soon he gets lower 
than those at whom he laughs and sneers. He 
lives on the labor of his women — ^his mother, 
a sister, or wife, when he gets one — ^until he 
dies. You cannot change the Indian; if you 
attempt it you spoil him.” 

Mr. Page was surprised at the extraordinary 
good sense of the young man. 

“You have a wise head on your shoulders,” 
he said. “I do not wonder that with very good 


Dionysio and Margarita. 


79 


intentions, perhaps, they selected you for Car- 
lisle. At any rate, they have taught you to 
reason.” 

^^To reason!” echoed Dionysio, with a flash 
of the eye and contemptuous curl of the lip 
that betrayed the latent deep Indian nature. 
^‘The Indian could reason long before he ever 
saw the face of the white man — and can do it 
to-day better than his teachers. I am not very 
old, but that much I have seen and I know.” 

“I believe you are right again,” said Mr. 
Page. ^^I should like to talk with you some 
other time.” 

Thank you,” said Dionysio. “It will also 
give me pleasure.” 

That evening the children took a walk with 
their father and mother in search of eggs. They 
were directed to a dilapidated brush-house at 
some distance from their camping place. It 
was said the eggs there were particularly large 
and fresh. They could not find it at first and 
went considerably out of their way. At length 
they came to the place, the most forlorn-looking 
dwelling they had yet seen. It was quite ex- 
tensive, however, open on three sides, and with 
a hole in the roof for ascending smoke from a 
bare fireplace. Two heaps of ragged and dirty 
bed-clothing lay close to the smouldering coals. 


8o 


Dionysio and Margarita. 


A little farther away, almost out of sight, was 
a cot. An old man lay on one heap of rags, an 
old woman crouched near the fire. A little girl, 
very pretty but very dirty, with beautiful large 
brown eyes and long black hair, sat near the 
old woman, still as a statue. They all seemed 
to be asleep. 

“Have you any eggs to sell ?’’ asked Mr. Page. 

The old woman rose from the ground. She 
was crippled, and appeared bent nearly double. 
She called her husband, who with great labor 
also got up from his heap of rags. The child, 
seeing the bucket in Walter’s hand, cried out in 
Spanish : 

“ Huevos, huevos I'' * The old people screamed 
at each other in a patois of Spanish and Indian, 
principally the latter. Then the child, in obedi- 
ence to some words from the grandmother, 
asked, “How many?” “A couple of dozen,” was 
the reply. The little one disappeared into the 
darkness in the rear of the dwelling, faintly 
illumined by the dying fire. 

She presently issued forth, carrying the eggs 
in her apron. She counted them into the pail, 
and Mr. Page placed a quarter in her hand. 
The old woman snatched it eagerly from the 


Eggs. 


Dionysio and Margarita. 


Si 


child and thrust it into a bag which she took 
from her bosom. Nothing could have been more 
squalid or uncomfortable than the hut, nothing 
more unlovely than the inhabitants with the 
exception of the child, whose beauty and inno- 
cence neither dirt nor squalor could destroy. 

The old man began to busy himself with the 
fire, throwing some brush upon it, while his wife 
produced a blackened coffee-pot from one corner 
and put it on the coals. They gave no more 
attention to their visitors than as if they did 
not exist. 

One would think they did not know we were 
here,’’ said Walter. 

“Probably they mean that we should go,” 
suggested his father. “Now that we have the 
eggs there is no excuse for our staying.” 

“I wish we could have that cute little thing 
to live with us,” said Nellie. “She is not so 
very dark. I would like her for a little play- 
mate, mamma.” 

“She is very attractive,” said her mother. 
“What a pity she must live in a hovel like this.” 
They turned to go, when a young man entered 
from the outside. It was Dionysio. 

“Good-evening,” he replied to Mr. Page’s 
salutation. “Were you looking for me?” 

“No,” replied Mr. Page, “we were not look- 


82 


Dionysio and Margarita. 


ing for you, but we are glad to see you. We 
have been purchasing eggs from these old people. 
I am told they have an excellent lot of fowls. 
Perhaps you are on the same errand.’’ 

!” exclaimed the boy; live here — ^these 
are my grandfather and grandmother — and my 
little sister,” he added, as the child glided to 
his side. 

Mrs. Page regarded him sadly. 

“You are thinking, madam,” said the Indian 
boy, “that it is a poor place — and so it is. But 
in the winter we are a little better off. Ours is 
yonder adobe house. My grandparents are too 
old and my sister too little to do much work. 
I must be away working whenever I can.” 

“What is your sister’s name?” inquired Mrs, 
Page. “She is a lovely child.” 

“ She is called Margarita,” said the boy. “ She 
is fond of her brother.” 

“Mamma,” whispered Nellie, “ask him to let 
her come and play with me.” 

Mrs. Page did not reply. The child was in 
her present condition not a possible companion 
for her own. 

Dionysio had heard the whisper, and in- 
stantly divining what was in the mind of Mrs. 
Page, he said : 

“You see that she is neglected; but what can 


Dionysio and Margarita. 


83 


I do ? My grandmother is very queer. She will 
not allow the little one to go to the school on 
the hill because the teacher is not Catholic, and 
she will not send her to the Mission for then 
Margarita will be away so far. She does not 
let her from her side. What can I do?’’ 

‘‘That is true; you can do nothing,” said 
Mrs. Page. “But perhaps some day ” 

“Yes, when they die — ^the old people, you 
mean,” continued Dionysio in the most matter- 
of-fact tone. “Then I shall send her to the Mis- 
sion. But while they live it must be as they 
say. I hope you will like the eggs; we have 
them always very good.” 

He made way for them to pass, a courteous 
smile upon his lips, his little sister clinging to 
his hand. 

A few days after this, when Alfonsa, the old 
woman who had said prayers in the church, and 
who had since undertaken to do the family 
washing, came for the clothes she said: 

“There has been a death in the night. The 
grandmother of Dionysio is gone. She was 
eighty-five. But many have lived longer. The 
grandfather is ninety.” 

“How good of that boy to be so kind and 
work so hard for them,” remarked Mrs. Page* 

“They are not so poor, maybe,” rejoined Al- 


84 


Dionysio and Margarita. 


fonsa. “With a vineyard and a little ranch, 
and the old woman always with chickens and 
eggs — ^they are not so poor, maybe.’’ 

“What will become of the little one?” in- 
quired Mrs. Page. 

“Who can tell? Some one will take her. 
Dionysio can stay with the old man.” 

“Couldn’t we have her, mother?” asked 
Nellie. “She is so sweet.” 

“What would you do with her, child?” in- 
quired Aunt Mary. 

“Love her and have her for a little play- 
mate,” said Nellie. 

“Well, well! Who ever heard the like!” ex- 
claimed Aunt Mary. 

“But she is so sweet,” repeated Nellie. “Let 
us have her, mother.” 

Alfonsa smiled at Nellie and went olf with 
the clothes. 

Nellie still persisted in her pleading. Mr. 
Page was reading within hearing distance. He 
now looked up from his paper and said to his 
wife : 

“Martha, since we came to California you 
have not had an orphan to care for. Before 
that there were always one or two.” 

“Yes, that is so,” agreed his wife. “Some 
one would die, or some waif would come along 


Dionysio and Margarita. 85 

and we would keep them till a home was pro- 
vided.’^ 

‘^Suppose you take the little Indian,” said 
her husband. “I am greatly interested in the 
boy. He and I have a chat nearly every day. 
We might be able to give him some kind of a 
chance also. If I buy that ranch up at Poway 
he could be of use there.” 

^^What do you wish me to do — not to take 
the child into the family as one of us, surely ?” 

^‘Oh, no, not exactly; but we could take her 
in now, and later send her to the Mission, or* 
perhaps to school in town. If she is anything 
like her brother she will become a help to you 
some day.” 

Nellie listened with sparkling eyes. 

“Yes, do, mamma; do, do!” she begged. 

“Well, I am willing to try it,” said the 
mother. “That is, if her brother consents, and 
we can get her thoroughly washed and combed 
and clothed before we bring her here. How is 
that to be done?” 

“Alfonsa will do it,” cried Nellie. “She has 
the cleanest house, mother — ^the cleanest — and 
you see how neat she looks.” 

“Well, we can ask her after we have seen 
Dionysio,” said her mother. 

It was trying for Nellie to wait until they 


86 


Dionysio and Margarita. 


laid the old woman away on the hillside, where 
the Indians bury their dead. 

Alfonsa was first approached with regard to 
the child. ^^Yes/^ she said, she would take the 
little one gladly; ^^and scrub and comb her 
every day for a week till she is clean enough 
to bring under the roof of the good, kind lady.^’ 

“But will the brother give her to us?^’ asked 
Mrs. Page. 

“If he is wise, he will,’’ said Alfonsa. “And 
he has always been wise.” 

Dionysio was pleased. His eyes brightened 
when the subject was broached to him. 

“But she is not clean,” he said. “I could not 
bring her to you as she is.” 

The talk with Alfonsa was then repeated. 
Dionysio had no objection to make, and Mar- 
garita herself was willing. A week of “quar- 
antine,” as Mr. Page humorously referred to 
it, and one morning Dionysio made his appear- 
ance, leading his sister by the hand. She wore 
a clean blue calico dress, and a red ribbon in 
her neatly braided hair. Her face was radiant, 
and when Mrs. Page approached, she at once 
went forward and placed one little brown hand 
in hers. 

“I have never seen her do like that,” said the 
boy. “She is so shy.” 


The Pedlar. 


87 


have come to live with you/’ said the 
child, gazing frankly around the tent till her 
glance included every member of the family. 

^^And you are welcome, my dear,” said Aunt 
Mary, disarmed of her reserve and prejudice, 
much to the surprise of everybody. She said 
afterward that no one could have resisted such 
a charming face and manner. From that mo- 
ment her subjugation was complete, and Mar- 
garita attached herself with equal affection to 
the kindly, if peculiar, old aunt. In a few days 
the child had adapted herself to all the ways of 
her new friends. Her amiable disposition and 
willingness to wait upon everybody soon en- 
deared her to all the family. Nellie petted and 
caressed her — it did not seem to spoil her. She 
slept on a rug in the larger tent, wrapped in a 
blanket, and curled up like a kitten. It was 
as though the little orphan had always lived 
among them. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE PEDIAR. 

Com ALONG ! Alcomout ! ” 

“ Comalong ! Alcomout ! ” 

Loud and shrill came the nasal tones accom»- 


The Pedlar. 


panied by the sharp ringing of a little bell. The 
children rushed from the tent. It was just after 
breakfast. 

A square, black-covered wagon, with a very 
high seat, on which was perched an odd-looking 
little man with grizled, curling hair, had stopped 
outside. 

^‘Oh, I thought it was an Indian!^’ exclaimed 
Walter. “You’re not an Indian, are you 

“Think not,” replied the little man, pleas- 
antly but tersely. “I’m a Portugee — a long 
time away from my own country. Why you 
think me an Indian, young man?” 

“That foreign language you speak,” replied 
Walter. “I thought it was Indian.” 

“ foreign language ?’ ” said the man, laugh- 
ing merrily. “That’s English.” 

“What was it?” asked Walter. 

“Comalong — alcomout. I’ve said it so often 
I guess it don’t sound just right ; but I’ll do it 
better for you, so you can understand it. I’ll 
say it slow : Come — ^along — all — ^ome — out. 
Do you know what it is now?” 

“Oh, yes; that’s easy enough,” said Walter. 
“What have you got in your wagon?” 

“Everything — calico, muslin, flannel, shoes, 
stockings, shirts, pots, pans, perfume, ribbons, 
laces — everything.” 


The Pedlar. 


89 


He had descended from his perch, and was 
opening the door of his wagon. It was very 
neatly arranged inside. The various articles of 
merchandise were placed separate and in order. 
With great good nature, the man began exhibit- 
ing his wares. 

^^Here,^’ he said, taking a couple of calico 
dresses from a box in which they had been 
neatly folded, ^‘here are two pretty frocks, if 
you have a little girl. I’ll sell ’em cheap. You 
see they’re not the latest style, so we can’t very 
well dispose of them in this fashionable part of 
the world.” 

^^That’s all right,” said Aunt Mary. ^^We may 
not be so particular. We have a little girl here 
whom they may fit. Come, ’Rita; let us see.” 

The child came at her bidding, looking 
eagerly into the pasteboard box. 

^^Ho, hello!” said the pedlar, in surprise. 
“What have we here? Isn’t this the little girl 
of the Barco’s? Isn’t this Dionysio’s sister?” 

“Yes,” replied Walter. “She lives with us 
now. Her grandmother is dead.” 

“Are you going to keep her?” 

“For a while at least,” replied Aunt Mary. 

“That is good — for her, very good,” said the 
pedlar, slowly. Then he added: “That child is 
a relation of my wife’s.” 


90 


The Pedlar. 


your wife an Indian?^’ asked Aunt Mary. 

“Oh, yes; she is an Indian — and a very good 
Indian. Pretty, too, like the little girl. I 
would have taken the child — Dionysio knows 
it.^’ 

“Have you no children of your own?’^ asked 
Aunt Mary. 

“No; but we would be very good to this one. 
Perhaps you will not like to keep her always.’^ 

“I can not say. For the present she remains 
with us.’’ 

’Pita had climbed up on the wagon wheel, 
and was pulling the boxes about. 

“She knows where to look for the candy,” said 
the pedlar, producing a box of gum-drops. 

The two little dresses were purchased by Aunt 
Mary, as well as some other small articles for 
the child’s use. A pair of shoes and some stock- 
ings were included. 

“You will find it hard to get her to wear 
shoes,” said the pedlar. “She has never had a 
pair on her feet.” 

“I will try to get a pair that is quite large,” 
said Aunt Mary. “She must become used to 
them gradually, of course.” 

When all the purchases had been made, the 
pedlar said: 

“I’ll he around here again in a couple of 


The Pedlar. 


Qi 


days: if you need anything else, you can get 
it. I camp up there above the springs.” 

you sleep in your tent?” asked Walter. 

“When it is cold I sleep in the wagon; when 
it is warm I have my cot. See ?” 

Looking underneath the wagon they saw a cot 
strapped to the outer floor. A number of cook- 
ing utensils hung from various hooks. There 
was also a camp stove and portable oven — 
everything necessary for comfort. 

“When I strike a place like this where there 
is a restaurant I donT cook for myself, but often 
I am miles from a settlement when night comes. 
Then I must cook for myself or starve.” 

He prepared to depart, but before he went on 
his way he raised Margarita in his arms and 
whispered something in her ear. 

“No,” replied the child, shaking her head. 

^'Dulcesf'^ he said, pointing to the box of 
candy. 

“No,” she said, ''muchas aquVj 

Aunt Mary did not like his actions. “What 
did he say?” she inquired, but Margarita had 
not yet sufficient knowledge of English to ex- 
plain. 

The new dresses were tried on; they fitted 

* Sweets. 

t “Plenty here.” 


92 


The Pedlar. 


very well, and the child was delighted. When 
Dionysio came they told him about the pedlar. 

saw him just now/’ he said. ^^He was 
scolding me because I would not give ’Eita to 
him. He says my grandmother promised, but 
I do not believe it. If so, she did not know what 
she was saying. Anyhow, she had not the 
right.” 

^^He says you are cousins of his wife,” said 
Mr. Page. 

“ Oh, yes ; but what is that ? All are cousins 
here. His wife is not a good woman; she is 
drunk many times, though he is well enough 
himself. He thinks if she had the child, his 
wife would be better, but I do not believe it.” 

Margarita had been listening attentively. 
She went up to her brother, put her hand in his 
and said in Spanish : 

^‘Hernando told me he would give me pretty 
clothes if I would go home with him, and I said 
the lady had given me some. He said I could 
every day have candy, but I told him we had 
plenty here. I do not want to go with Her- 
nando.” 

^‘And you shall not go, Margarita,” promised 
her brother. You shall not go.” 

All that day the pedlar’s bell could be heard 
through the valley; the children met him in 


The Pedlar. 


93 


their rambles several times, but he did not come 
to their camp again. 

The following morning, as they were preparing 
to go with Francisco for water, he passed them. 

Are you going away for good now ?^’ inquired 
Walter. 

‘‘Yes, until fall at least,’’ said the pedlar. “I 
have sold nearly all my things. I am off to 
San Jacinto for more.” 

His horses trotted off briskly, and the team 
was soon out of sight. According to their usual 
custom the children remained some time at the 
cold spring. Nellie and ’Rita strolled from place 
to place, looking for “sour-grass”; the boys lay 
in the shade of one of the large trees. 

“Ay! ay!” shouted Francisco, after they had 
been there quite a while. “It is time.” 

“Ay! ay!” repeated a mocking voice. “It is 
time.” 

“That’s William again,” said Francisco. “We 
have not seen him for long, but now he is here.” 

There was a crashing through the bushes, and 
the form of their enemy appeared. He was 
whirling a dead rattlesnake on the point of a 
stick. Much to their surprise, he neither paused 
nor sought to molest them. Apparently he was 
in a hurry to get away. 

They were greatly alarmed the next moment 


94 


The Pedlar. 


at sight of Nellie running toward them. Her 
hat was off, her braids were unfastened, and she 
was panting for breath. 

^^What is wrong? What is the matter?’’ cried 
Walter and F“rancisco together. 

“I can not find ’Eita,” she replied, and burst 
into tears. ^^We were looking for sour-grass, 
and she went a little distance off. All at once 
that horrid boy came with a dead snake. He 
began to run after me. I ran ever so far, and 
at last he stopped. I begged and begged him 
not to throw it on me, and I cried. Then, when 
he went away, I called ’Eita because I could not 
see her. She did not answer. I went back to 
the place where she had been. She wasn’t there. 
And I can’t find her at all.” 

^^But you were not far?” inquired Francisco. 
^^She could not get lost so soon. Walter and 
I will find her in a minute. Sit there and rest.” 

The two boys were soon traversing the broad, 
grassy plateau. It was so bare of trees that no 
one could possibly be roaming over it without 
being seen. ’Eita was not there. Francisco 
called to her Indian fashion, but his calls were 
not answered. 

“Come up, Nellie,” said Walter, at last, run- 
ning down again to the edge of the bank where 
they had left his sister. “Come and show us 


The Pedlar. 


95 


where you last saw her. We can’t find her nor 
make her hear.” 

The little girl was soon beside them. 

^‘Just over there,” she said, “not far from 
those bushes. She must have gone into them 
and got lost. I ran in the other direction when 
William came after me with the snake. Let’s 
go down into the bushes and look for her. What 
is there on the other side, Francisco ?” 

“All bushes, thicker and thicker till you come 
to the road,” said the Indian boy. “On the 
other side of the road there are more bushes, 
and after them a broad meadow like this.” 

“She couldn’t get through them,” said Walter. 
“They are so very close together and she is so 
timid — she would not try it.” 

Francisco inclined his head on one side and 
listened. 

“Do you hear the horse’s whinny?” he asked. 
“I have heard it three times since we came up 
here.” 

“No,” replied the brother and sister. They 
had not heard any such sound. 

“I have a thought,” said the Indian boy. “I 
will go quietly through the bushes. There is 
no need for all of us. When I come back you 
may come along if you like. Just a stick for 
the snakes, and then I go.” 


96 


The Pedlar. 


Seizing a branch that lay at the foot of a tree, 
Francisco started to push his way through the 
thicket. 

Where do you suppose he has gone?’^ asked 
Nellie. 

Don’t know,” said Walter; “but Francisco 
is all right. He knows what he’s about.” 

After a little while the Indian boy reappeared 
looking elated. 

“I did not make a mistake,” he said. “It is 
Hernando who has taken Margarita. There 
she sits on his lap by the wagon. He has 
stopped there to water the horses. Come ; I will 
show you.” 

“Do you think he means to steal her, Fran- 
cisco? Oh, do you think he wants to take her 
away?” asked Nellie, tearfully. 

“That I cannot tell,” said Francisco. “He 
will not dare, when he sees us.” 

“How can we stop him ? He can run off with 
his horses. Oh, how dreadful! how dreadful!” 
said Nellie, all but crying. 

“Now, sister, if you are going to cry, we’ll 
have to leave you behind,” said Walter, keen for 
an adventure. He stepped softly on tiptoe in 
the tracks of Francisco as he had seen other boys 
do in pictures. 

“But I won’t stay behind,” answered Nellie, 


The Pedlar. 


97 


stifling a sob. Mamma would not like it if 
you left me here.^’ 

^^We will not leave you; come along/^ said 
Francisco, leading across the meadow to another 
fringe of bushes. ‘‘Only be quiet/^ he contin- 
ued, “so we will not be seen.” They skirted the 
thicket, going a long way round, and after a 
time crossed the road and came out on a broad 
green expanse. 

Two horses were feeding in the open ; a wagon 
stood close by. The pedlar, his back to the chil- 
dren, was smoking under a tree. Beside him, 
contentedly munching candy from a box in her 
lap, sat Margarita. 

“Ay! ay! ^Rita!” cried Francisco, coming 
suddenly upon them, “why did you run away?” 

The child looked at the pedlar, who was vis- 
ibly perturbed. “I found her over there alone,” 
he explained tO' Francisco, “so I brought her 
here. I would have taken her back in the wagon, 
though it would have lost me time. I was going 
when I had flnished my pipe.” 

The child looked at him in astonishment. 

“And not to go to Veronica?” she asked. 

“Why to Veronica? Of course not,” he re- 
plied quickly. 

“ But you said ” began the child. 

“It does not matter what he said,” inter- 


98 


The Pedlar. 


mpted Francisco. “Come, now; we must go 
home. I believe you are a rogue, Hernando,” 
he continued turning to the pedlar. “I believe 
you are a great rogue ” 

Hernando laughed. “Well, if I am,” he said, 
“I am not the only one in the world. You cannot 
prove anything of that which you are thinking.” 

“If you were not guilty, Hernando,” an- 
swered Francisco, “you would not so quickly 
understand my meaning.” 

The man rose to his feet and busied himself 
with the ponies. 

“Well, go now, and let that be all,” he said. 
“Take along with you the candy, Margarita.” 

Francisco lifted the child onto his shoulder. 
“I will carry you some,” he said. “Did you 
want to go away from Nellie and Walter?” he 
asked in Spanish. 

“No, only till next week,” she replied. “Her- 
nando said that there in his home were pretty 
dolls — oh, such pretty dolls that Veronica had 
for me — and many bright rings. He said that 
Dionysio had told him to take me there.” 

“But, ^Rita, do you not know that the other 
day Dionysio said you should never go to Veron- 
ica.” 

“Yes; but perhaps to-day it was different, I 
thought.” 


The Pedlar. 


99 


‘‘He would perhaps never have brought you 
back. You must promise not again to go away 
with anybody.’’ 

“He carried me.” 

“Oh, well, I believe he meant to steal you. 
Veronica would have beaten you, ’Kita.” 

“I am glad not to have gone with him,” said 
the child. “Let me walk now.” 

He set her down, and taking Nellie by the 
hand she clung to her all the way home. 

As they passed the cottage where the mission- 
ary resided they saw a crowd near the door. 

“It is what they call a prayer-meeting, I 
think,” said the Indian boy. 

“Not at this time of day,” remarked Walter. 
“The missionary woman is crying.” 

“Maybe William frightened her with the rat- 
tlesnake,” said Francisco. 

“But your uncle is there — I see him,” said 
Nellie. “He is talking to the men.” 

“Very well; but it is late now, and we must 
not stop,” said Francisco. “Perhaps she has 
been putting some pictures in the church again. 
My uncle can get angry, too, sometimes.” 

“But he would not make a woman cry, would 
he, Francisco ?” asked Nellie, with some anxiety. 

“No ; I do not think he would make a woman 
cry. It is strange, a little, that he is there; 


100 


The Pedlar. 


but he would be displeased if I should go over 
and leave the water on the roadside. Your peo- 
ple will be wondering why we are not back.” 

At the camp they had begun to feel uneasy. 
When everything had been explained by the chil- 
dren, who now that Margarita was safe rather 
enjoyed telling the experience, the elders were 
inclined to think Hernando really intended to 
kidnap the child.” 

‘^That is what I think,” said Francisco. 

When he went away to-day he was not think- 
ing of it, maybe, but when he saw her from his 
high seat in the wagon he thought he would 
take her home with him. He has not much good 
sense, that fellow. If she had cried on the road 
he would, maybe, have brought her back. Any- 
how, there is not much harm done — maybe good 
— for she will be careful now.” 

He was in the act of turning Eosinante home- 
ward when he saw his uncle approaching. The 
old man looked very much troubled. 

“What is it?” asked the boy. 

“Something very bad,” was the reply. 
“Something very, very bad. I do not believe 
it, Francisco, but the missionary woman has lost 
her pocket-book, and they say that you have 
stolen it.” 


Falsely Accused. 


lOI 


CHAPTER VIII. 

FALSELY ACCUSED. 

Francisco paled visibly under his swarthy 
skin. Then his face grew a dark crimson. 

“They think I have stolen it!” he exclaimed. 
“I have never been in the house of that woman. 
No one can say that they have ever seen me 
there.” 

“So I told them. But there is someone there 
who saw you yesterday near the ramada* next 
door,” said Mauricio. 

“What of that, uncle? Do I not go every 
other day with water to the people who live 
there? And is not the water kept under the 
ramada f* 

“Very true. But there is much loud talking 
down there. She threatens to have you ar- 
rested.” 

“But you are the constable. You will not 
put me in the cuartelT* 

“I must, if there is sworn out a warrant,” 
replied Mauricio, sadly. 

“Come, come,” said Mr. Page, “it will not 
amount to that, I hope. Let us go down at 


* Porch angle of brushwood. 


102 


Falsely Accused. 


once to the house where the money was stolen 
and see what they have to say — on what grounds, 
if any, they accuse you/^ 

^^ That is the best thing to do,^’ assented Mau- 
ricio. “It will show that you are not afraid/’ 

The children stood amazed, grieved, and 
silent. Their busy minds imagined all sorts of 
dire possibilities for their friend Francisco. 

Without a word Francisco followed the two 
older men, his head erect, his eyes fearless and 
unashamed. People looked at them in passing, 
nearly all in sympathy, for Francisco was a 
favorite with all the visitors save the very 
few friends of the missionary woman. The 
crowd had not diminished when they reached 
the house, and all eyes were turned toward them. 

“Where is the person who has lost a pocket- 
book,” inquired Mr. Page, looking from one to 
another. 

“Inside,” replied a man, a cripple whom 
Francisco had often assisted at the baths. “ She 
is quite hysterical. I hear it contained a large 
sum of money. I’ll never believe Francisco had 
anything to do with the theft.” 

Mr. Page did not reply. The boy gave his 
defender a grateful look before passing into the 
house with the others. 

The loser of the pocket-book sat in a rocking- 


Falsely Accused. 


103 


chair, somewhat calmer and more composed than 
she had been when Manricio left her. The sight 
of Francisco, however, seemed to bring on a re- 
newal of her excitement until Mr. Page said : 

Pray be quiet, madam, until we have learned 
something of the particulars of this theft. I 
am here on behalf qf this boy, whom, I am told, 
you accuse of having taken your pocket-book. 
It is a very serious accusation.’’ 

William, stationed back of his mother’s chair, 
darted a triumphant glance at the Indian boy. 
Francisco stood, cap in hand, silently awaiting 
what the woman had to say. With a hysterical 
gulp, she began : 

always keep my pocket-book with me, usu- 
ally in my bosom. Yesterday, while I was lying 
in the hammock, a pedlar came with some no- 
tions. I bought from him a paper of pins. After 
paying him I put the pocket-book under the 
pillow of the hammock. I distinctly remember 
doing that. Afterward I dozed off, and upon 
awaking forgot all about the pocket-book. 
Everybody was at the baths at the time, and I 
hurried there so as to get my bath before din- 
ner. 

“MTien I came back, the Indian boy was just 
going off with his water-wagon. I would have 
spoken to him, but he avoided me. I attributed 


104 


Falsely Accused. 


this to surliness at the time, but now I believe 
it was because he was guilty and could not meet 
my eye/’ 

Francisco was about to speak, but Mr. Page 
said: “Not yet, Francisco; not yet. Is this 
all the evidence you have against the boy, 
madam ?” he continued. 

“No, it is not,” she rejoined. “I did not miss 
the pocket-book until this morning. As soon as 
I did miss it I went to the hammock. It was 
not there. My neighbor first put it into my 
head that the boy might have taken it.” 

“Please let me speak a word,” now inter- 
rupted a kindly-looking, gray-haired woman sit- 
ting near the missionary. “I am Mrs. Mink- 
son’s nearest neighbor. We have the ramada 
in common. I want everyone in this room and 
in this village to understand, first and foremost, 
that I had no idea of accusing Francisco when 
I said what I did. When Mrs. Minkson came 
to me and told me she had lost her money, she 
also asked me if I had seen anyone about the 
place yesterday. I told her no, only Francisco 
just as I was coming up from my bath. I saw 
him stoop and pick up a blanket from the 
ground and throw it on the hammock. He was 
coming then with water for me. I saw him be- 
fore he reached the ramada and when he went 


Falsely Accused. 


105 


away. I never meant that Mrs. Minkson should 
think he had taken her pocket-book.^^ 

“May I speak now, Mr. Page?^’ Francisco 
asked. 

“Yes; tell what took place while you were in 
the neighborhood/^ said Mr. Page. 

“Yesterday I came here with water about 
eleven o^clock/’ began the boy. “There was no 
one around. I saw Mrs. Plummer coming up 
from the bath-house. When I went by the ham- 
mock a blanket was lying on the ground. So 
it wouldn’t be trampled on by someone nor get 
wet from my barrel, I picked it up and laid it 
at the foot of the hammock. I left the water 
for Mrs. Plummer and went away. That is all 
I know.” 

A murmur arose from the crowd, whether of 
approbation or the contrary could not well be 
determined. Mr. Page was too much concerned 
to notice it. Francisco and his uncle also were 
preoccupied. 

“I believe your story, Francisco,” said Mr. 
Page. “I trust that everyone here believes it. 
I can see nothing in what has been told to war- 
rant the accusation made.” 

“That isn’t all,” exclaimed William, from 
behind his mother’s chair. “I know something 
worse than that, I do.” 


io6 


Falsely Accused. 


“ Out with it at once, my boy,^^ said Mr. Page. 
^‘Let us hear everything you know.’’ 

^‘Well, I didn’t tell this before, but I saw 
Francisco last night with a twenty-dollar gold- 
piece in his hand, standing in the restaurant.” 

William,” protested his mother, sharply, 
pushing him away from her, “didn’t I tell you 
that had nothing to do with it. There was no 
gold in that pocket-book.” 

The crowd laughed, and William, nothing 
daunted, went on : 

“I think it’s mighty funny when an Indian 
like him can throw twenty-dollar gold-pieces 
’round.” 

Francisco looked at Mr. Page; that gentle- 
man nodded. 

“In order to clear the boy of any suspicion 
these ill-advised and malicious remarks may 
have aroused in the minds of his hearers,” he 
said, “I will now state that I gave Francisco 
the gold-piece to have changed for me at the 
restaurant.” 

A white boy in Francisco’s position would 
have faced his opponent with a triumphant 
smile; the Indian did not even look toward 
him. But he glanced gratefully at Mr. Page, 
and the face of Mauricio grew less grave and 
troubled than it had been. 


Falsely Accused. 


107 


“I should like to ask/^ said Mr. Page, once 
more turning to the missionary, “whether you 
may not have been mistaken as to where you 
placed your pocket-book? Have you looked 
everywhere about the house ?^’ 

“Ho, sir; I have not been mistaken,’’ she 
replied. “I remember perfectly well having put 
it under the pillow. It is very easy to go 
through this house. There is not even a closet 
in it. Where could it be hidden ?” 

“Have you looked under the mattress?” 

“Ho, sir; I have not. I never put money 
under a mattress.” 

“ ’Tis my belief, ’tis my belief,” whispered a 
rheumatic old Irishman to Mr. Page, “that the 
b’y yonder,” pointing to William, “has got up 
some thrick agin the Indian. He have a great 
spite agin him.” 

“You don’t believe he has hidden the money, 
do you ?” inquired Mr. Page. 

“I do, ye know,” was the reply. “He’s the 
divil’s own limb — that same youngster. And 
they both of them, mother and son, have a great 
spite agin the Indians because they’re Catholics. 
’Tis a shame, sir, to have that innocent crathur 
accused in this way.” 

“It is,” agreed Mr. Page. “But no one who 
knows him will believe it. Further, there is not 


io8 


Falsely Accused. 


the slightest evidence to support the woman^s 
accusation.” 

The old man looked at him quizzically. ^‘You 
are a lawyer, I believe, sir,” he said. 

^‘Yes, I am,” replied Mr. Page. 

“From your point of view you are right, sir,” 
replied the old man deliberately. “There’s 
nothing agin him. ^^But — hut/^ he continued 
with greater deliberation, laying his shriveled 
hand on Mr. Page’s arm, “till that b’y’s cleared, 
till the pocket-book’s found or the real thief’s 
caught — there always will be a suspicion agin 
him as long as he lives.” 

“I agree with you,” said Mr. Page. “The 
matter is very unfortunate. But we are power- 
less in the matter. We can do nothing.” 

The old man shook his head sadly, and was 
about to leave the house when his glance rested 
on the edge of the throng near the door. His 
old eyes brightened. Again laying his finger on 
Mr. Page’s coat-sleeve, he said, in a low voice : 

“If I’m not mistaken here is someone who’ll 
go to the root of the matter without much more 
ado. He'll put things through in a hurry. 
He'll find the pocket-book or the thief, or he’ll 
know why.” 

Following the old man’s glance, Mr. Page 
saw an Indian parting the crowd. He was very 


Falsely Accused. 


109 


tall and well-built, and his features were some- 
what rugged. An air of authority betokened 
him a person of some importance. 

^‘Ifs the Captain,^’ said the old man. ^^It’s 
Cecilio, the head man of them all. Wait, now, 
till ye hear him.^’ 

The Indian stepped to Mauricio’s side. 

^‘As I came through the village,’’ he said, “I 
heard of the trouble.” Then they talked to- 
gether in their own language. Presently Cecilio 
went over to Mrs. Minkson. 

Madam,” he said, politely in excellent Eng- 
lish, “they say a pocket-book has been lost here 
by you, and that you suspect this boy, Francisco, 
to be the thief. 

“I am the Captain of this village, and when 
we have sent away this crowd of people, or, at 
least, made them stand on the outside, we will 
search the house thoroughly.” 

“You have no right to search my house,” said 
the missionary. “It has been done already.” 

“I have a right, and I will use it,” he said. 
“Will you go out, please, my good friends, so 
that we may not be hindered ?” 

The people, complying with his request, slow- 
ly left the house. 

“This is my good friend, Mr. Page,” said 
Francisco. “May he not stay with us here ?” 


no 


Falsely Accused. 


^^Yes; that is all right/^ said Cecilio. “It is * 
better that we have a witness/’ 

“Or two/’ said the old Irishman, coming 
nearer to Mr. Page. 

“Or two,” repeated Cecilio, smilingly. 

“Now, madam, will you kindly open these 
boxes and search through your clothing?” re- 
quested the Captain. 

“I tell you I will not do it,” said Mrs. Mink- 
son. “This is an outrage. This is my house 
while I am in it, and you dare not order me 
to do anything I do not choose.” 

“Very well, madam,” calmly remarked the 
Indian; “then we look ourselves.” 

“You are up to some trick,” said the mission- 
ary. “The boy has probably handed it to you, and 
you will pretend to find it. You shall not search 
my house. Go out of here — ^go out !” 

The two Indian men again conversed in low 
tones. Then Cecilio said: 

“It is either that you look, or that we do. 
You will choose. They say that you left it in 
the hammock. Will you go first to the ham- 
mock, please ?” 

The woman saw determination in the eyes of 
the Captain. Very slowly she walked to the 
door and stepped to the ramada, in front of 
which the crowd still lingered. She lifted the 


Falsely Accused. 


Ill 


pillow and was about to replace it, protesting 
loudly, ^‘This is a farce,” when it fell to the 
ground, the open end of the cover facing down- 
ward. Out of this end a brown leather pocket- 
book rolled toward the feet of the spectators. 

Quite a tumult of congratulation ensued. 
Francisco soon became the centre of a sympa- 
thetic throng. Mrs. Minkson, very much dis- 
comfited, was not one of them. On the contrary, 
she hurried into the house without a word and 
closed the door. 

Cecilio turned to the spectators and, laying 
his hand on the shoulder of Francisco, said : 

^^My good friends, I see that you have not be- 
lieved this boy a thief. You have seen that the 
woman, instead of putting the pocket-book under 
the pillow, placed it by accident in the cover. 
Some of you who are here know us very well. 
To others we are strangers. But it is just and 
right that the strangers should learn what is 
very well known to all who are our friends ; and 
it is this : 

“For more than twenty-five years the Hot 
Springs have been visited by white people; we 
have thrown open to them our houses, and we 
have moved out of them, going elsewhere to live ; 
we have always kept away from them, staying in 
our own dwellings and going our own ways. 


1 12 


Falsely Accused. 


That no one ran deny. And in all those years, 
in this village where no door is ever locked, 
never once has an Indian been known to enter a 
house where the people were not — ^not once has 
anything been stolen by an Indian. That, my 
friends, can be proved. 

^‘Francisco, this boy here, is without father 
and mother, but he has been always good, always 
faithful, always industrious, always honest. And 
to-day he has not lost his good name. Soon we 
Indians must leave our homes, soon we must be 
cast out of the place of our fathers; but, at 
least, if it be God’s will thus to chastise us, let 
it not be said at the end what has never been 
said of us — that we are thieves or robbers.” 

With a courteous wave of the hand, he passed 
through the crowd and quickly remounted his 
horse, a fine animal, on which he sat like a cava- 
lier of old. As he rode away there arose a cheer 
from the crowd for Captain Cecilio,” 

The people — ^whites and Indians — gathered 
round Francisco, and nearly everybody shook his 
hand. The boy received their good wishes qui- 
etly but gratefully, with the natural dignity of 
his race. After many a pause on the road he 
returned to the tent with Mr. Page and Mau- 
ricio. The good news had preceded them, and 
the children shouted for joy ; Walter loudly ex- 


A Jaunt — The Valley of the Rattlesnakes. 113 

pressed his belief that the whole thing had been 
a plot devised by the missionary for the ruin of 
their friend. For this he was immediately re- 
proved by his parents for rash judgment and 
want of charity, but subsided only after several 
reminders. 

Francisco reported the next day that Mrs. 
Minkson had apologized to him for her suspi- 
cions, which action showed her to be possessed 
of a Christian spirit, even though mistaken zeal 
had carried her out of her own province. The 
boy William remained implacable to the end. 


CHAPTEK IX. 

A JAUNT. — THE VALLEY OF THE RATTLESNAKES. 

Bleak and barren as is for the most part the 
immediate neighborhood of the Springs, one 
need not ride very far to reach the cool shade 
of the mountain woods. 

One day, when Walter and Nellie were telling 
Francisco of the delicious sugar-cane in their 
native State and lamenting that in California 
there were no lilacs or ^^snowballs,” the Indian 
boy said: 


N 


1 14 A Jaunt — The Valley of the Rattlesnakes. 

^^But yes; in the garden of the teacher there 
are always lilacs in the spring. Ftom the woods 
the children brought them to her, young plants ; 
now they are trees, and they bloom very well 
indeed. She says they are not so large or so 
sweet-swelling as those of her own home in the 
East, but yet they will do, she says. And of 
snowball trees she has two.” 

^^With bright green leaves and big, round 
flowers, like snowballs?” asked Nellie. 

^^Yes, from a distance that is how they look. 
Now they have done blooming, but in the spring 
they are flne. Wild roses we have in the woods 
over yonder. There are spots full of them. 
Would you like to see? And I will show you 
then the sugar tree.” 

^^Let us ask papa to have a picnic. Can we 
come and go in one day, Francisco ?” 

Easily, if we start early enough,” said Fran- 
cisco. 

The children lost no time in miaking their re- 
quest. Everybody was willing to do something 
to vary the monotony of life in Cupa. Very 
early one morning a few days later the party, 
with Mauricio and Francisco in charge, started 
for the woods. 

Mr. Page was something of a naturalist, or, 
it might more properly be said, a lover of nature 


A Jaunt — The Valley of the Rattlesnakes. 115 

in every beautiful form. When they had come 
into the shadow of the woods he began to ob- 
serve the various kinds of shrubs, and was 
pleased to find a variety of ^^buckeye^^ native 
to California. Presently they came upon a large 
cluster of bushes, growing luxuriantly, the leaves 
of which very much resembled those of the 
india-rubber tree. 

There,’’ said FranciscO', ^^is a tree the Ameri- 
cans call ^mahogany tree’ on account of its color, 
but the Indians name it limonada.^^ 

^^What does that mean?” asked Mr. Page. 

^^The lemonade tree,” said Mauricio: ^^The 
little fruits, or pods, have a sour sweetness. We 
soak them in water, and they make a nice lem- 
onade. You will see our women and children 
gathering them when they are getting ripe. 
They put them into sacks and carry them home. 
Then they lay them in the sun to dry. It is 
a very nice drink. We have some at our house. 
Some day, if you wish, Francisco will take you 
a quantity.” 

‘^Yes; we’d like to taste it,” said Nellie. 

Perhaps we might gather some of the fruit 
and take it home.” 

“Of what need?” said the Indian boy. 
“There you have plenty lemons. Here we have 
none — that is, unless we buy them.” 


ii6 A Jaunt — The Valley of the Rattlesnakes. 

^^They are cheaper now than in the old days,” 
said Mauricio. ^^Still, many of our people like 
better the limonada pods.” 

^^Over there, in the canon,” said Francisco, 
^^are the sugar trees. It is not the time now 
for the fruit, but later in the autumn they will 
gather it and dry it.” 

They followed a well-worn road along the 
course of a small stream which trickled down the 
mountain-side — now disappearing, now shining 
like a thread of silver, now crossing the path 
in front of them. All along the road, marking 
its course in its curving deviations, grew the 
beautiful wax myrtle, with its smooth, dark- 
green leaves and perfect, white flowers. 

As they plunged deeper into the woods, the 
rich, pungent odor of the mountain sage grew 
more pronounced; they came upon wild bees 
flitting from flower to flower. Clumps of wild- 
rose trees, drooping with blooms, offered a gen- 
erous hospitality to the industrious gatherers of 
honey. However, the little wayfarers undoubt- 
edly preferred the aromatic white and black 
sage. 

The foliage grew more and more dense ; soon 
the trees on either side arched over their heads ; 
the bed of the streanl was now perfectly dry. 
Just at the bend of a broad canon they came 


A Jaunt — The Valley of the Rattlesnakes. 117 

upon more bushes, in some places as high as 
trees and with a cro-wn of dense, pale foliage at 
their top. 

^^What are these inquired Mr. Page. 
“Some are like dwarfs, others are giants, and 
their trunks and stocks seem to have been 
twisted by some convulsion of nature.’^ 

“That is the manganita — the Christmas berry 
of California, said Francisco. 

“Ah, I see,’’ remarked Mr. Page. “When we 
first came, don’t you remember, mother, it re- 
minded us of the eastern holly.” 

“Yes,” said his wife, “and it made me very 
homesick to see it.” 

“It is always beautiful, the manganita,” said 
Mauri cio. “About December, when it is warm 
in the sheltered canons though there may be 
snow in the mountains, the manganita puts 
forth pretty, small white bells.” 

“Sometimes they are a little pink,” said Fran- 
cisco, “and then they are prettier. When they 
fall the shrub seems to grow stronger, and the 
new shoots come forth scarlet and crimson. 
They look beautiful with the green of the older 
leaves.” 

“Again in the fall the fruit ripens,” said 
Mauricio, “and near to Christmas, when the 
berries are a bright red, you begin to see the 


Ii8 A Jaunt — The Valley of the Rattlesnakes. 

wagons loaded with the Christmas greens com- 
ing down the mountain roads and going into the 
city. Oh, I have often taken down a load; it 
makes money for us.’’ 

‘^That manganita is the finest thing we 
know,” said Francisco. ‘^Deep in the ground 
are the roots; they make good fuel. We burn 
them, and some sell them in town. You have, 
maybe, burned the manganita roots, Mr. Page?” 

“No, we have not,” was the reply; “but if 
you ever fetch us down a good load in the fall, 
Francisco, we will burn them this winter.” 

“Very well; it shall he done,” said the boy. 
“I shall be glad to do so.” 

“It must be nearly lunch-time,” ventured 
Nellie. “I feel pretty hungry.” 

Her father looked at his watch. “ It is only 
eleven,” he said, “but we had breakfast early. 
There does not seem to be any level ground just 
here. Shall we come to some after a while, 
Mauricio ?” 

“Soon,” replied the Indian. “Wait a while 
and you will see. There will be water, good 
water, and we can make coffee.” 

The ascent had grown very steep; the horses 
tugged slowly but willingly upward. Suddenly 
they seemed to be at the top of the mountain. 
The slope on the other side, becoming very grad- 


A Jaunt — The Valley of the Rattlesnakes, iicj 


ual, led into a broad, green, pleasant valley 
fringed by luxuriant foliage. 

^‘How beautiful!’^ was the general exclama- 
tion. 

“It seems like an. enchanted valley,’’ said 
Aunt Mary. “If you will observe, it forms an 
almost perfect circle. That lovely fringe of 
green surrounding it — ^the foot-hills just above 
— and those magnificent mountains in the back- 
ground — it does indeed make one think of an 
enchanted valley.” 

“Once it was encantado/"* rejoined Mauricio. 

“What is it called ? Has it any name ?” asked 
Walter. 

The Indians smiled and looked at each other. 

“You will not be frightened if I tell you?” 
asked Mauricio. “The danger is past — nothing 
can hurt you. The spell is long since broken.” 

“Oh, tell us!” cried Nellie. “We won’t be 
frightened.” 

“It is called Valle de los Cascabeles ^ — 
^The Valley of the Eattlesnakes.’ ” 

“Ugh !” exclaimed Nellie. “Are there rattle- 
snakes down there ?” 

“Not any more, I think; perhaps never any 
there,” answered Mauricio. “But there is a 
story.” 

* Enchanted. 


120 A Jaunt — The Valley of the Rattlesnakes. 


“A story? Oh, do tell it to us/’ cried the 
children. 

‘^You see, as we come nearer,” replied the 
Indian, ^^that in the centre is a large, round 
spot where nothing is growing — no grass, no 
bush, no tree.” 

It was true. In strange contrast to the fresh 
verdure all around, this single, bald, unlovely 
spot, black as though fire had burned it, stood 
forth. 

“Once, very long ago,” said Mauricio, “there 
lived a tribe of Indians in those mountains over 
there where the Volcan smokes. They came 
every year here to this valley for their -fiesta — 
all the tribe. Once they were at war with some 
others who dwelt beyond the Volcan, near to the 
peaks of the Cuyamaca. Then it happened that 
the son of the chief of the Volcans was wounded 
and captured in a fight, and they took him to 
the camp of the Cuyamacas, and there he was 
tended by the women. 

“Then, when he was well and able to go again 
back to his own people, he vowed that he would 
have for his wife the daughter of the chief of 
the Cuyamacas, the fairest of her tribe, and that 
there should be peace forever between the Cuya- 
macas and the Volcans. Now, the chief of the 
Cuyamacas was very, very old, and he was not 


A Jaunt — The Valley of the Rattlesnakes. 121 

unwilling that peace should be before he died. 
Not so the chief of the Volcans. He called 
down all the wrath of the great spirit on his son, 
and the young man, angered at his father, swore 
that he would disobey him and join the side of 
the enemy against him. ‘The great good spirit 
will desert thee,^ said his father. ‘Thou and 
thy posterity shall be accursed.^ 

“ ‘Then I call upon the spirit of evil to aid 
me,’ said the rash young brave, and bursting 
away from his father he betook himself to this 
valley. AVhen he reached it he saw in the 
middle of the broad space a large, flat stone 
which before had not been in the valley. And 
a voice said in his ear: ‘Lift up the stone.’ 
But he said: ‘I can not; it is twenty times 
broader, and many times heavier than I.’ 
‘Lift up the stone,’ said the voice again. 

“Then he obeyed, and there came forth a legion 
of rattlesnakes, scattering in every direction; 
but they touched him not. He slept, and in the 
morning returned to the camp of the Cuyamacas 
and married the daughter of the chief. But the 
people did not trust him, and his wife taunted 
him with his ingratitude to his parents. He 
bowed his head and went forth once more. In 
the bitterness of his grief he wandered to the 
valley, and there he saw lying dead around the 


122 A Jaunt — The Valley of the Rattlesnakes. 

ashes of a camp-fire many braves and squaws 
and papooses of his tribe. His father and 
mother were there, and his sisters and his fellow- 
braves. All about them were the cascabeles 
darting to and fro, and then he knew that the 
evil spirit had done this thing because he had 
called upon him for aid. 

“So he lay down in the centre of the valley, 
where the stone had been, and he cried out : 
renounce you, 0 Spirit of Evil ! Be it done 
unto me, 0 Spirit of Good, as it has been done 
unto my people.’ Then there came a great fire 
out of the earth beneath him, and even to his 
bones he was destroyed. But perhaps he was 
thus purified from his sin. Since that time this 
place has been known as the ‘Valley of the 
Rattlesnakes.’ Where the young chief was 
burned no blade of grass has since grown.” 

“A very interesting story,” said Mr. Page. 

“But who told of it if they were all dead?” 
queried Walter, a little skeptical. 

Mauricio shrugged his shoulders. “That I 
can not say,” he replied. “It was an old story 
long before my grandfather was bom.” 

“And what became of the rattlesnakes? Are 
any of their descendants living among those 
bushes ?” asked Mrs. Page. 

“If they are,” said Aunt Mary, “I think we 


A Jaunt — The Valley of the Rattlesnakes. 123 

ought to camp somewhere else for lunch and 
rest.’^ 

shall not be near the bushes/^ said Mau- 
ricio, ^^and there is no other place near where 
we can stop to eat/’ 

^^You will never see a snake in an open place 
like this,” said Francisco. There is no dan- 
ger.” 

‘^We will stop now,” said Mr. Page. They 
were at the edge of the circular green basin, and 
Mauricio pulled up the horses. The party left 
the wagon, glad to stretch their limbs after so 
long a ride. A couch of robes and blankets was 
made for Mrs. Page under a tree. Aunt Mary 
sat down beside her, and the others busied them- 
selves in spreading out the lunch. 

“ Come ; I will show you a pretty sight,” said 
Francisco to the children, taking a tin pail from 
the wagon. They followed him to the bushes, 
in the midst of which stood a large sycamore 
tree, the only one to be seen. Putting aside its 
luxuriant boughs, the Indian boy disclosed a 
sparkling spring tumbling down from the rocks 
above. 

“This it is which makes the valley so green,” 
he said, “and the bushes to grow everywhere.” 
The water was icy cold. “It is an iron spring,” 
continued Francisco, “and good for many dis- 


124 Jaunt — The Valley of the Rattlesnakes. 

eases. Many persons camp in this section. 
There are pretty little spots all around.” 

“See that rock above the spring?” asked Nel- 
lie, pointing to the spot. “It looks like an arm- 
chair with a flat back and a broad seat. It 
must be lovely to sit up there and listen to the 
trickle, trickle of the water over the pebbles.” 

“I never thought of that,” said Francisco. 
“Many times as I have been here, I have never 
thought of that. But so it is.” 

When they returned with the water Aunt 
Mary made the coffee, and luncheon was ready. 
Afterward Mr. Page and Mauricio walked up 
and down, discussing the coming eviction of the 
Indians; Mrs. Page and Aunt Mary were rest- 
ing; Francisco and Walter were cutting twigs 
for whistles. 

For some time Nellie wandered about alone 
till Anally her steps turned in the direction of 
the iron spring. She had a strong desire to sit 
in the natural armchair she had discovered. It 
was just like what a girl in a story-book would 
do, she thought. 

For some moments she stood watching the 
clear, sparkling water falling over the stones; 
then, stepping across the little stream she 
climbed up bn the other side and seated herself 
on the broad rock, her feet resting on the tuYfy 


A Jaunt — The Valley of the Rattlesnakes. 125 

grass beneath. It was very pleasant to sit in 
that shady nook, to watch the sunlight filter 
through the green leaves of the sycamore, and 
listen to the singing of the tiny waterfall. 

Nellie was tired ; she had been up since dawn. 
Pulling off her sun-bonnet, she leaned her head 
against the flat, cool stone that formed the back 
of the comfortable seat. 

^^Whiz — whiz — ^whiz !” went something close 
behind her. Leaning back, she tried to locate 
the sound. ^‘It is like a corn-crake,^’ she 
thought. ^^But I never heard anything just like 
it. Can it be a bird T’ 

^^Whiz — whiz she heard again, but now the 

sound receded and presently ceased. 

“I wonder if it could have been a big grass- 
hopper,” thought the child, once more resuming 
her restful position. In a moment she was fast 
asleep. 

‘^Nellie! Nellie!” called her father; but she 
did not hear him. ' 

“Nellie! Nellie!” repeated Walter a few mo- 
ments later. 

The child slept on, while the golden light still 
trickled through the leaves, and the silvery 
water sang its one, unchanging song. Some- 
thing that had crawled away, something Nellie 
had mercifully not seen ! — long, lithe, slender. 


126 A Jaunt — The Valley of the Rattlesnakes. 

sinuous, horrible, with slimy skin and loathsome 
head and glittering eyes — began slowly to re- 
turn, creeping toward the child in the sylvan 
chair. 

She did not awake, for the crawling thing 
made no perceptible sound. The bushes parted. 
Francisco was there, hearing, seeing, and in 
an instant, leaping the stream, springing to her 
side. 

In a moment she was in his arms, wide-awake 
and frightened; but the creeping creature the 
Indian boy had seen with its head erect and 
fangs exposed had vanished in the bushes, de- 
spoiled of its prey. Another instant, and they 
all had surrounded the little girl. Alarmed by 
Walter’s shriek, for he also had seen the snake, 
they had run to the spot. 

When everyone had grown calm again, they 
looked about for Francisco. While they were 
wondering where he had gone and why, the boy 
came crashing through the brushwood, carrying 
upon a stout stick a rattlesnake more than six 
feet long. 


The Almirantes. 


127 


CHAPTER X. 

THE ALMIRANTES. 

When Nellie saw the reptile she grew white 
from fear and aversion. 

“Oh, take it away! take it away!^’ she cried. 
“I can’t bear to look at it.” 

Francisco flung it into the bushes. 

“Some would stuff it and keep it,” he said. 
“And some make belts of it. But you shall 
never see it again, my good little Nellie, if you 
do not wish.” Later he told Walter that he 
would get the snake again, hide it in the wagon 
when the child was not looking, and sell it to 
someone at the Springs. It was unusually large 
and venomous, and loud were the thanks Fran- 
cisco received on all sides for the rescue. 

“Weren’t you afraid, my boy?” asked Aunt 
Mary, placing her hand on Francisco’s arm. 

“No, I was not afraid,” said the boy. “Often 
I have killed a rattlesnake before.” 

“But were you not fearful that it would 
spring at you, or on Nellie, if you made a 
noise? Or that it might fix its eyes upon you 
and hold you there ?” 


128 


The Almirantes. 


no ; it is not true that they can do that/^ 
said Francisco, “unless, perhaps, with birds, 
who are so very little that they stand still with 
fear. The snakes run away when they hear a 
noise; they are afraid of noise and of men.” 

“There is probably a nest of snakes in the 
bushes,” said Mr. Page. 

“I think so,” replied Francisco. “Shall we 
look ?” 

“No, no — not for us,” said Mrs. Page. “Let 
us get as far away from here as we can, as 
soon as we can. The thought of the danger the 
child escaped makes me nervous and afraid.” 

“Strange that you did not hear it in the 
bushes,” said Francisco. 

“I did,” responded Nellie. “I am sure I did. 
It went Vhiz — whiz,’ like a corn-crake or a 
grasshopper, or those funny little windmills you 
take in your hand and whirl around, mamma. 
Why, it made me feel sleepy to listen to it; I 
know it made me go to sleep ” 

“That was the rattle,” said Francisco. 

Mauricio was already putting the horses into 
the wagon, and in a few moments they were 
leaving the beautiful green valley behind, al- 
though they did not retrace the route they had 
taken that morning. 

Mauricio, wishing to show them the source of 


The Almir antes. 


129 


the iron spring, suggested that they make a cir- 
cuit, which would bring them eventually to the 
road. All agreed. When they came opposite 
the bare spot where the immolation of the In- 
dian was supposed to have taken place Walter 
asked: 

^^What became of the huge stone under which 
the snakes were hidden, Mauricio?’’ 

do not know,’’ replied the Indian; “I 
have never heard. Maybe it crumbled to pieces 
after awhile, or maybe it disappeared as sud- 
denly as it came.” 

^‘I went over there this morning, or, rather, 
Francisco and I did,” said Walter, ^‘and we be- 
lieve, at least I do, that there is nothing peculiar 
about the spot at all. You can see there have 
been a great many fires there — that is why noth- 
ing grows.” 

“No Indian would make a fire there,” said 
Francisco. 

“Wouldn’t you?” queried Mr. Page. 

“No, I would not,” said the boy. “I would be 
afraid.” 

“I would just love to try it,” said Walter. 
“If we were going to stay longer I would.” 

“ And then maybe you would be burned up, 
like the bad brave of long ago,” said Mauricio, 
laughing. 


130 


The Almirantes. 


“Well, we’ve had one experience to-day; that 
is enough, Walter,’’ said his mother. “I am 
not afraid anything might happen, but do not 
think I would allow you to go against all the 
traditions of the place. The legend is undoubt- 
edly obscure, but something must have happened 
there. We have had evidence enough to-day 
that there are some rattlesnakes about and that 
the valley deserves its name. I do not think 
I can ever look at a rattlesnake’s skin again.” 

When they left the valley the road wound up 
a long, moderately steep ascent overlooking an- 
other valley similar to the one they had just 
left, but much smaller. 

“One might truly call this a hidden nook,” 
remarked Mr. Page. 

“And that is what they call it,” said Mau- 
ricio, 'El Valle Escondida * — ^the hidden valley. 
Over there at the edge of the brush is a camp.” 

When they came nearer they met several In- 
dian children with long, slender reeds in their 
hands. 

“They have gathered them by the stream, and 
they are taking them to be softened,” explained 
Mauricio. “It is of those that they make bas- 
kets.” 

“The famous Indian baskets?” inquired Aunt 
Mary. 


The Almirantes. 


131 

replied Mauricio. There under that 
tent is a woman weaving one, and just across 
sits a man making a mat/’ 

They now saw that they were in the midst of 
a genuine Indian camp. 

^^Do those people belong to Cupa?” asked Mr. 
Page of Mauricio. 

^^Yo,” he replied; ^Hhey are the Volcans — 
they live up there behind the mountains, but 
come here in the summer to get the reeds. Al- 
ways at this season you will find them here. 
They come and go.” 

Under hastily erected brushwood dwellings 
quite a number of persons, mostly women, were 
seated. They accosted Mauricio and Francisco 
in their own tongue. ^^They ask if we will stay 
a little,” said Mauricio, turning to Mr. Page. 

Mrs. Page and Aunt Mary both expressing 
themselves as much interested, the party 
alighted and walked about the camp. A large 
portion of the luncheon had been left. This 
Mauricio distributed among the Indians, after 
Mr. Page had inquired whether they would ac- 
cept it. They did not seem so intelligent as the 
Cupa Indians and looked much poorer. This, 
Francisco explained, was because they had not 
had so much intercourse with the white people. 

The process of basket-weaving appeared to be 


132 


The Almirantes. 


slow. The material was soaking in earthern 
jars, one long strand at a time being woven in 
and out, apparently without design. However, 
this is not the case. Wonderfully beautiful 
shapes these baskets assume under the skilful 
hands of the weaver. 

The rug-maker, a man past ninety, with bent 
shoulders and white hair, smilingly held up his 
work for examination. It was of coarser ma- 
terial than that of the baskets and the work 
went much faster. 

^‘He has all he can do, old Feliciano,’^ said 
Mauricio. ^^His son is blind. He cannot work, 
and his grandson, with whom he lives, has lost 
the use of his limbs. There are two little girls 
and a boy, and the mother is dead. With the 
work of his hands that old man supports four 
generations. He is teaching it now to his grand- 
daughters, but he tells me that they do not care 
much to learn it.’’ 

‘‘Will he sell us a mat?^’ asked Mrs. Page. 

“Yes, if he has one there. They are nearly 
always sold before they are finished. The people 
at the Springs buy them, and now the stores 
are selling them. They wear very well.’’ 

Feliciano had two or three mats on hand. 
Mrs. Page bought them all. 

“Come and see this primitive cooking->stove,” 


The Almirantes. 


133 


said Mr. Page, who had been passing from one 
tent to another. 

A little removed from the rest a brush-shed, 
open on every side, was being used as a kitchen. 
A large hole in the roof gave egress to the 
smoke. A circular wall of round, flat stones 
about a foot in height had been erected ; within 
this wall the Are had been made. A huge black 
pot containing an appetizing stew was steaming 
on the embers. In front of it, in an upright 
pan, a rabbit was roasting. A woman was peel- 
ing potatoes, another cutting green tomatoes 
and mixing them with mango peppers. 

“All thdt goes into the pot,’’ said Francisco. 
“Don’t you like the smell?” 

“Will everybody eat out of that pot?” in- 
quired Aunt Mary, to whom this primitive 
method did not strongly appeal. 

“N*o one will eat out of it but the dogs — 
what is left,” laughed Francisco. “There are 
dishes and plates and knives and forks in every 
house. But everybody will have some of it, for 
each has helped to provide the food. To-day 
one does the cooking, or two, or three, and to- 
morrow others.” 

After smiling adieux from the Indians the 
party resumed its journey. On the opposite 
side of the hill they came to another camp. 


134 


The Almirantes. 


much more attractive in appearance than that 
of the Volcans. 

‘‘These are some of the Santa Isabel Indi- 
ans,” said Mauricio. “They live in the valleys 
hereabout, but farther back among the moun- 
tains. There was once a church for them, and 
a very good one, of adobe — now nothing but 
the walls remain. But they are going to build 
another. The priest comes once a year.” 

“Do they have Mass then?” asked Mrs. Page. 

“Oh, yes,” replied Mauricio. “They have it 
in the brush-house over there. Did you not see 
the bells when you came ?” 

“No; we did not notice them,” said Mr. 
Page. 

“They are always photographed by visitors,” 
remarked Francisco. “They came from old 
Spain. They are the finest toned in California ; 
there is much gold and silver in them.” 

“We shall have to look at them on our way 
home,” said Aunt Mary. “I am greatly inter- 
ested in such things.” 

“They are more than two hundred years old,” 
said Mauricio. “The Volcans and Santa Isa- 
bels are very proud of them.” 

And now once more they were at the top of 
the ascent overlooking a valley much smaller 
than either of the others. Behind this rose an 


The Almirantes. I35 

almost perpendicular hill covered with an un- 
dergrowth of various kinds of bushes. 

Two snow-white tents were pitched at its base. 
In front of one of them a young girl lay read- 
ing in a hammock. At her feet a boy was mak- 
ing a bow and arrow. In the door of the tent 
an old lady, with a white, fleecy shawl thrown 
over her shoulders and a lace scarf over her 
snow-white hair, was knitting. 

^^They are the Almirantes,’’ said Francisco 
in a whisper to Miss I^ellie and Walter. “They 
come every year to the Iron Spring.” 

Respectfully saluting the old lady, who arose 
at their approach, the party was about to pass on 
when, coming forward, she said, “How do you do, 
Mauricio and Francisco ? And how is Cecilio ?” 

“All are well, Senora,” was the reply. 

“And you are from the Springs — driving for 
the day ?” she continued, courteously addressing 
Mrs. Page. Being answered in the affirmative, 
she said : 

“I am the Senora Almirante; I live with my 
grandchildren at the ranch not far from San 
Diego. We come to this place every year for 
the last five — ^no, four years. I find it does me 
a great deal of good.” 

Mr. Page then introduced himself and his 
family. 


136 


The Almirantes. 


can it be that you are the friends of 
the Gordons, our neighbors, of whom we have 
heard them speak so often? Father Gregorio 
told me also that you had been living in Cali- 
fornia, and had now decided to remain here/’ 

^^Yes, indeed,” replied Mrs. Page, ^^the Gor- 
dons are old friends. We were disappointed on 
coming out to learn that they had gone East 
again.” 

“Well, it is only for a time, you know,” said 
the Sehora. “It is only to settle some business, 
and then they will return.” 

“Ramona,” she continued, addressing the 
young lady in the hammock, “come here to be 
made acquainted with some friends of the Gor- 
dons. And you also, Alejandro,” to the boy. 

They came forward, the girl tall, dark and 
slender, with a crown of magnificent jet-black 
hair wound round and round her small head; 
the boy, several years younger than his sister, 
but very much resembling her in feature. 

“Any friends of the Gordons we are very glad 
to know,” said Ramona Almirante in response 
to the kindly greetings of Mr. and Mrs. Page. 
“What a pity you are not camping here with 
us at the Spring. It is so pleasant.” 

Walter and Alejandro were by this time con- 
versing like old friends. But the day was wear- 


The Almirantes. 


137 


ing on. Manrieio reminded them that there 
was considerable traveling to be done before 
sundown, and they were compelled to say good- 
by. In the few moments’ intercourse they had 
had the Pages were charmed with the Sehora 
and her grandchildren. She promised to call 
at their home in the city in October, when she 
expected to make her usual yearly trip. 

^^Will you not come to the Springs for a day 
before returning to town?’^ asked Mrs. Page. 
“We could manage to entertain you pleasantly, 
and even put you up for the night.” 

A slight change passed over the Senora’s 
countenance. 

“I thank you very much,” she replied. “I 
do not go there — I do not like the place; but 
we shall soon meet again. With friends of the 
Gordons we must be friends.” 

“What charming persons,” remarked Aunt 
Mary as they drove on. “If all the old Spanish 
families were like this one, I do not wonder that 
poets and story-writers lament their passing 
away.” 

“Many are like them,” rejoined Mauricio. 
“ The Senora has done much good in her time. 
Once they were a very rich family.” 

“How very dark the girl and boy are,” said 
Mrs. Page. 


138 


The Almtr antes. 


‘^The boy, mother — the boy looks like Fran- 
cisco. Don’t you think so, Mauricio?” asked 
Walter. 

“I have never thought of it,” the Indian re- 
plied. Francisco said nothing. 

They had not gone far when they met two 
Indians, a man and a woman, both considerably 
advanced in years, carrying bundles of fagots on 
their shoulders. 

^^Ay, ay !” called Mauricio. *'Como estan 
ustedes, Concilio Valerianof* 

The couple halted. 

^^Ay, ay, Mauricio! We did not know you. 
We are not so young as we once were,” the old 
man said. ^^We do not see so well.” 

^^But you are strong and well still,” rejoined 
Mauricio. “We have been at the camp. We 
have seen the Sehora. These ladies and gentle- 
men I have been giving a ride to-day.” 

“Well, well,” said the old woman; “and is 
this not Francisco?” 

“Yes,” said the boy; “am I grown tall?” 

“Yes, yes, and handsome, too!” exclaimed 
the old woman. “We are glad to have seen 
you. How is Cecilio, and Maria, and Juan 
Diego ?” 

“All are well,” replied Mauricio. ^^Adiosf* 

^^AdiosT* rejoined the pair and, bowing po- 


The Almir antes. 


139 


litely to the occupants of the wagon, they 
passed on. 

^^They are the servants of the Senora/’ said 
Mauricio, when they had resumed their way. 
“They have lived many, many years with her. 
They are related to us, both husband and wife.’’ 

The moon had risen when they reached the 
camp. Charlie was awaiting them with a good 
dinner. Mrs. Page insisted that Mauricio and 
Francisco partake. 

When the rest of the family had retired Mr. 
Page, not feeling sleepy, went out for a walk 
and a smoke. 

Near the springs he met the stage-driver, 
about to fill a pail with hot water. After hav- 
ing told him of their drive and the meeting 
with the Almirantes, Mr. Page said : 

“They seem to be very fine people.” 

“They are — ^what is left of them,” rejoined 
old Chadwick. “Forty year Pve known them. 
The old Senora is as proud as Lucifer. Cap- 
tain, I can tell you that, nice as she is. She’s 
never got over that mistake of her son — ^never 
will; though she’s a mother to both them 
children.” 

“What mistake was that?” inquired Mr. 
Page. 

“Why, didn’t you notice how dark them two 


140 


The Almirantes. 


are? Didn’t Mauricio tell you nothing about 
them?” 

^^No, he did not.” 

“Why, they’re part Indian. Couldn’t you see 
it? Notice how fair the Senora is beside them.” 

“Yes, but we never surmised that they had 
Indian blood,” said Mr. Page. 

“Well, they have, sir, good and strong. Their 
mother is a full-blooded Indian, living on the 
Mesa Grande — ^married again to a good fellow 
— Indian — up there. She’s a cousin to Mau- 
ricio and Francisco. Lots of their relations liv- 
ing round here. That’s why the Senora never 
comes to Warner’s. I don’t blame her — it’s a 
bitter pill.” 

“It must have gone hard with her,” said Mr. 
Page. 

“It did. Yet she took that girl when she 
was a baby, and has raised her ever since. They 
do say she never knew she was part Indian un- 
til four or five years ago. The old lady took 
the boy then — ^he was at the mission school. 
Now she sends him up to Santa Clara. They’re 
fine children — the image of their father, both 
of them. Miss Eamona, she’s a perfect lady 
if there ever was one.” 

The next day Mr. Page said to Mauricio : 

“Chadwick told me the story of the Almir- 


The ‘TuntaJ 


ante children last night. I know now why it is 
that Francisco looks like the boy.” 

^^Yes?” replied Mauricio. “Chadwick talks 
too much, I think. Still, everybody knows it. 
But it would not have been for either Francisco 
or myself to have been the first to tell of that 
which has caused the Senora so much unhap- 
piness.” 

Which Mr. Page considered, and justly, an- 
other admirable trait in the Indian whom he 
had already learned to admire and respect. 


CHAPTEK XI. 

THE “junta.” 

The Pages had been six weeks at the Hot 
Springs. The invalid, quite recovered, was able 
to join them in all their expeditions. The 
children had enjoyed every waking moment of 
their stay, and the sleeping moments also, it 
might be said, if one should judge of that by the 
soundness of their repose. 

“ Our vacation is nearly over,” said Mr. Page 
one morning, looking up from a letter he had 
been reading. 

“Oh, papa,” cried Walter and his sister, “do 
we have to go home soon?” 


142 


The “Junta: 


“Pretty soon/'^ was the reply. “This letter 
calls me home. Mr. Dillon has business in Ari- 
zona, and wants to start not later than the first 
of September/^ 

Mr. Dillon was Mr. Page’s partner. He had 
already postponed his departure beyond the time 
originally set. Mr. Page did not feel that he 
could ask him to do so again, and the elder 
members of the party were beginning to feel 
that home would be welcome. 

Not so the children. Rugged with health, 
bubbling over with happiness, and almost as 
brown as the young Indians, they deplored the 
necessity of leaving a spot with which they had 
become thoroughly familiar, and whose strange, 
peculiar people they had learned to know and 
love. The Indians are slow to make friends 
among the whites, but their confidence once 
given, they do not soon withdraw it. Walter 
and Nellie had long since been initiated into 
the mysteries of herb gathering, fruit drying, 
blanket and basket weaving, rug making and 
beef jerking. They could talk quite intelli- 
gently on all these subjects. 

That which interested them most, appealing 
strongly to their tender sympathies, was the 
subject of the removal of the Indians from the 
Springs. 


The *TuntaT 


143 


^^They talk of it everywhere we go/’ said the 
boy to his father one evening. ^‘They are al- 
ways asking ns if we think perhaps the govern- 
ment will let them stay, papa, and what you 
think of it. 

‘^We always tell them that it isn’t the govern- 
ment that is putting them out, but they can’t 
understand that. They say if the government 
can buy them or give them another home they 
might just as well let them stay. I think it is 
dreadful, dreadful for the people to drive them 
away.” 

^‘Yes, it is both sad and unjust, it seems to 
me,” said their father; ^^but such has been the 
fate of the Indian ever since the white man 
landed on these shores. It has always been 
^move on, move on’ ” 

“Till there isn’t any more land to move to,” 
interrupted Walter. 

“There is going to be a Junta to-morrow or 
the day after,” said Nellie. “The commission- 
ers are coming to talk to them.” 

“A good many of them think they won’t have 
to go-, because Mr. Lummis is coming, papa,” 
said Walter. 

“That will not make any difference in one 
way,” said their father, “though it may in an- 
other. Mr. Lummis is a true friend of the In- 


144 


The '‘Junta.' 


dians. He will exert all his efforts to have 
them removed to a desirable place, where there 
will be plenty of water, fertile soil, and every 
other favorable condition.’^ 

heard a man say the other day to Captain 
Blacktooth that the Indians had not been here 
more than twenty-five years.” 

^^And what did Cecilio answer?” 

^^He said, pointing to the graveyard: ^Look 
at our graves on the hillside. Some of those 
crosses crumble like ashes. ^ Touch one, it falls 
to pieces in your hand. And yet there are 
crosses there fifty years old that have not begun 
to crumble or fall.^ ” 

^‘What did the man say to that argument?” 

^^He said wood rotted very fast in this 
country.” 

Which is not true,” rejoined Mr. Page. 

Then Cecilio said, in the most scornful way : 
^You can read in the reports of the lawsuit that 
one of the white commanders wrote more than 
fifty years ago that the Indians at Warner’s 
Eanch were made to work by hogging them. 
How you fiog us no longer, but you do as bad, or 
worse. That was before I was born, yet you 
say we were not here twenty-five years back. 
You would better study the case first before you 
say such things.’ ” 


The “Junta: 


145 


^^Then Cecilio went away/’ said Nellie, ^‘and 
the man said he would like to flog him — Ce- 
cilio.” 

‘^It was funny about Francisco, then, papa,” 
said Walter. ^^He was coming with a big bucket 
of water, and he stumbled over that man’s foot 
and spilled a lot.” 

^^Was the man angry?” asked his father, with 
a smile. 

Oh, very !” 

And Francisco?” 

^‘He said, ^Oh, excuse me,’ and went on. 
When I told him he was not always so awkward 
as that, he laughed and said: ^Sometimes I am 
awkward, Walter. Sometimes I have been, and 
perhaps I will be again.’ And he never smiled, 
papa — just walked along with his eyes on the 
ground. I am sure he did it purposely.” 

“Yes, I think he did,” said Mr. Page. 

“But you don’t think it was any harm, do 
you?” inquired Nellie. 

“No, I don’t,” was the reply. 

“I’d have emptied the whole bucket on his 
head if I had been an Indian,” said Walter. 
“Those people are too patient.” 

“And so you would be, my son, if you had 
been hunted for five hundred years as they have 
been,” said Mr, Page, 


146 


The “Junta: 


Early the next morning' there was an unusual 
stir in the village. The Indians had donned 
their best clothes, and a general air of expecta- 
tion pervaded everything. All eyes seemed to 
turn in the direction of the Cold Spring, from 
which it was expected the visitors would arrive. 
At last a carriage was seen approaching, and 
all the natives were out to meet it. After 
luncheon in the restaurant the people followed 
the commissioners to the schoolhouse, where 
Mr. Charles Lummis explained the case to them 
as clearly as it was possible to do. They lis- 
tened in respectful silence, and then went slowly 
and silently away. 

The next morning they reassembled. 

^^Have you thought about what was said yes- 
terday?” asked one of the commissioners. 

“Yes,” came in a low murmur from the 
crowd. 

“And what have you to say?” 

“That we wish to stay here in our homes,” 
answered Captain Cecilio. 

“But that is impossible. You have been told 
that it cannot be. This land does not belong 
to you any more. The law has so decided it.” 

“If once it was ours, why not still? We have 
not sold it. We have not given it away ; we have 
not left it. Why, then, is it not our own ?” 


The “Junta: 


147 


^^That has already been explained. You al- 
lowed the time to pass without presenting your 
claim until it was too late.” 

^‘But we did not know, and our old men did 
not know,” cried Cecilio in a loud voice. 

“The law takes no account of that.” 

“It is not just; we do not understand the 
law.” 

“Nor we, at all times. But it has been de- 
cided, and it cannot be changed. Think now 
of the outside country that you know, and make 
up your minds where you wish to go. The gov- 
ernment will do what it is best for you.” 

“Let us go to the Great Father in Washing- 
ton and plead with him — I and some of my 
people,” requested Cecilio. 

“It cannot be. It would be useless. There 
is only one thing to be done.” 

“And that thing we shall never do of our 
own free will,” cried Cecilio, flinging out his 
arms and shaking his black locks in the face of 
the speaker. 

Then began a loud talk in the Cupeno lan- 
guage, for in this emergency the Spanish failed 
them. The white men waited quietly until the 
tumult had subsided, knowing that it was best 
to let them give vent to their feelings so long 
repressed. At length a flne-looking young 


148 


The "‘Junta: 


woman stepped forward and, without the least 
embarrassment, offered to translate the answers 
of her people into- the Spanish tongue.* 

^‘We thank you for coming here to speak with 
us,’^ she said, as courteously as any lady in the 
land. 

“We thank you for coming here to talk with 
us in a way we can understand. It is the first 
time any one has done so. They have said, 
‘You must go, 3mu must go,^ but they have not 
told us, assembled together, why we must go. 
Some of our old people have never believed it 
till now, and some of us will not yet believe 
that it can happen. 

“You ask us to think what place we like next 
best to this place, where we always have lived. 
You see that graveyard out there? There are 
our fathers and our grandfathers. You see that 
Eagle-nest Mountain, and that Eabbit-hole 
Mountain? When God made them he gave 
us this place. We have always been here; 
we do not care for any other place. It may 
be good, but it is not ours. We have always 
lived here, we would rather die here. Our fa- 
thers did ; we cannot leave them. Our children 
were born here — ^how can we go away? If you 
give us the best place in the world it is not so 
* Charles F. Lummis, in “Out West,” 


The '"Junta: 


149 


good for us as this. The Captain he say his 
people cannot go anywhere else; they cannot 
live anywhere else. Here they always live; their 
people always live here. There is no other place. 
This is our home. We ask you to get It for us. 
The Indians always here. We stay here. 
Everybody knows this is Indian land. These 
Hot Springs always Indian. We cannot live 
anywhere else. We were born here, and our 
fathers are buried here. We do not think of 
any place after this. We want this place and 
not any other place. 

“But if the government cannot buy this place 
for you, then what would you like next best 

“There is no other place for us. We do not 
want you to buy any other place. If you will 
not buy this place we will go into the moun- 
tains like quail and die there, the old people 
and the women and children. Let the govern- 
ment be glad and proud. It can kill us. We 
do not fight; we do what it says. If we cannot 
live here we want to go into those mountains 
and die. We do not want any other home.^’ 

It was useless to parley with the poor Cu- 
pehos. That they would receive the value and 
more than the value of their houses, that they 
would be given material to build other and bet- 
ter dwellings, that soil as fertile and water as 


150 


The “Junta: 


abundant would be found for them, that they 
would be provided with new agricultural tools, 
that they would be transported free of charge 
to their new home — none of these things availed. 
To each and every argument they made the 
same reply : 

‘‘ We want no other place, we want no new 
houses, or lands, or tools for farming. This is 
our home, here let us stay. Or, if you will not, 
let us go into the mountains and die.’^ 

It was very pathetic. Not only Walter and 
Nellie, but their father also, wiped away more 
than one sympathetic tear as, standing on the 
edge of the crowd, they listened to that soulful 
cry, nearly as old as the world: 

“Here is our home, here let us stay. Die we 
can and will, but give up our homes we cannot.” 

The commissioners, unable to make any im- 
pression upon the Indians, soon departed, all of 
them deeply affected by the proceedings. 

They had now nothing to do but continue 
their search for available lands, fearing it might 
yet come to pass that the Indians would have 
to be ejected by force from their homes. 

In groups of two or three, the men together, 
the women and children following, but all com- 
posed, all silent, they went to their several 
dwellings. It had been a sorrowful day in 


The ^‘Juntar 


151 

Cupa; every hope raised by the > expectation of 
meeting the commissioners had been dashed to 
the ground. Mr. Page and the children walked 
silently back to the camp, longing to exchange 
words of sympathy with these humble friends, 
yet respecting their silent grief too deeply to in- 
trude upon it. 

Children, you will never forget this day,^^ 
said their father. “Let it, then, always be a 
lesson to you, though it is not likely either of 
you will be called upon to decide the destiny 
of any nation, or part of a nation, however 
small. Prom his point of view, the present 
owner of Warner’s Eanch has a perfect, unde- 
niable right to occupy these lands, and so he 
has in the eyes of the law. He is not an un- 
kindly man, I am told, nor is he a poor man. 
Yet it would seem that now he has neglected a 
grand opportunity for doing a generous action 
and gaining not only the gratitude of these 
poor people, but the admiration and respect of 
the whole country. 

“However, it seems he cannot find it in his 
heart to allot them their beloved nine hundred 
acres out of his broad possessions, numbering 
thirty thousand. It has been said truly by the 
wisest lips that ever spoke: ‘It is easier for a 
camel to pass through the eye of a needle than 


152 


The Return. 


for a rich man to enter the kingdom of 
heaven/ 


CHAPTEE XII. 

THE RETURN. 

On the morning after the Junta Dionysio re- 
turned from the large ranch where he had been 
helping the harvesters. Or, rather, he returned 
on the evening of that day, but came down to 
the Pages^ camp in the morning. 

Margarita, in her pretty red dress and new 
shoes and stockings, came to meet him, with 
many childish expressions of joy. He took her 
in his arms, fondled her cheek against his, and 
said in Spanish: 

‘^Querida, you love your brother?’^ 

replied the child. Dionysio knows it 

well.^’ 

^^And you love also the white people who 
have been so kind to you?^’ 

“/St, very much,’’ was the reply. 

“And would you be willing, Querida, to go 
far away with them to stay?” 

“Will you come, too?” asked the child. 


The Return. 


153 


Dionysio shook his head and looked at her 
steadfastly. 

^^Not to see you any more?^’ 

Again he shook his head. 

^^Then I shall not go. Where my Dionysio 
stays there will I stay. You will not send me 
away.” 

“No, my sweet one, I shall not send you 
away.” 

He put her down and sought Mr. Page, who 
was smoking back of the tent. After they had 
exchanged a few remarks he said: 

“Last night I had a long talk with Cecilio. 
He thinks it is not well that I give my little 
sister to the white people. And Cecilio knows. 
Good and kind you will be to her, I am sure; 
but if you die, and your wife — then what ? And 
even before that? If you keep her like one of 
yourselves, no other white people will do so — 
then where is she? Thrown on the world like 
so many have been — a stranger to her people, 
not wanted by the others — what is to become of 
her then? And even if I am living she will 
have forgotten me. Is it not right what I 
say ?” 

“Yes, in some respects it is,” answered Mr. 
Page. “ But we were speaking of the child last 
night, Dionysio — my wife and aunt and myself. 


154 


The Return. 


My aunt has formed quite an affection for the 
little one, and proposed that she should take her 
back to the East, educate her, and have her for 
a companion.’^ 

^‘Your aunt is no longer young,^^ replied 
Dionysio. 

“No, she is not young/’ 

“And when she dies, what then?” 

“You may be sure the child would be well 
provided for.” 

“ That may be true. But it is the same thing. 
She would still be alone.” 

“You have the right to decide, Dionysio,” 
said Mr. Page. “She belongs to you. What 
would you do with her? Would you send her 
to the Mission until she is grown ?” 

“Then she would not care for me, maybe. 
No ; I think not the Mission.” 

“But she would learn to read, then, and to 
sew, and to cook, and to be neat.” 

“I can teach her to read, and our women — 
some of them, can cook well and sew.” 

“But you do not mean that you and she will 
live alone together? You are awav so often — 
how could you manage it?” 

A smile appeared on the stolid face of the 
Indian, and a little shamefacedly he replied: 

“You have been good to the child, Mr. Page, 


The Return. 


155 


and to me. I will tell you : On the ranch where 
1 have been working there is an Indian family 
in charge. The owners do not live there much. 
These Indians are good people, and know well 
how to keep house. The girl was for a time 
at the Mission. That is where I will take my 
little sister.^’ 

A light burst upon Mr. Page. 

he said laughingly. “You are going 
to be married, Dionysio?’’ 

“Yes, sir,’’ replied the Indian, also laughing. 
“I am going to marry Victoria. It is all set- 
tled. I can have work there as long as I wish.” 

“Then you do well to keep your sister,” said 
^Ir. Page. “And I congratulate you, Dionysio; 
you deserve a good wife.” 

And so it was that the little Indian girl who 
had so endeared herself to the family was left 
behind when they departed from the village. 
Aunt Mary was sorely disappointed. She had 
made many plans for the future of the child; 
but on reflection she, too, saw that Dionysio’s 
plan was the most proper and natural. But 
never did a small daughter of Cupa have a 
neater or more attractive outfit than that which 
arrived from town as soon as possible after the 
Pages returned. 

At last the morning came for their departure. 


The Return. 


156 

It seemed as though all the women and children 
in the place had assembled to bid them good-by. 

Alfonsa, almost hidden under pots, pans, 
kettles, blankets and clothing which they had 
given her, followed the wagon to the beginning 
of the diverging road. Mauricio was absent, 
but Francisco rode beside them as far as the 
top of the mesa land which looked down upon 
the village. There was regret in every heart as 
they made their adieux, but they hoped to see 
him again, for he had promised to bring them 
a load of wood for the winter. 

They did not forget to look out for the bells 
of Santa Isabel. When near the end of the 
first stage of the homeward journey they saw 
them in the distance. The framework, gnarled 
and blackened by age, looked like a gibbet 
against the sky. When they came nearer Char- 
lie asked Walter if he did not want to get down 
and ring the bells. 

“What would the Indians think?’’ asked 
Walter. “Might they not imagine they were 
being called for something?” 

“That’s so,” was the reply. “I did not mean 
to ring them, exactly, but to strike them. They 
have such a beautiful, clear tone. I have a fine 
hickory stick here; do you want it?” 

“Yes,” replied Walter; “give it to me.” 


The Return, 


157 


He left the wagon and, going up to the bells, 
gave each a sharp, quick stroke on the side. 
The sound reverberated again and again, filling 
all the valley with its clear, musical tone. 

^^That is not how,’’ said a voice beside him, 
and an Indian boy about his own age suddenly 
appeared as though from the earth. He had 
been sleeping, however, in the shadow of the 
bells, and the sound had awakened him. 

Taking the stick from Walter’s hand, he 
touched them one after another, but softly and 
slowly. How different were the echoing sounds 
from those which Walter had evoked ! 

“You know how to do it,” said Mr. Page, 
handing him a quarter. 

“It is in my family,” said the boy gravely. 
“ My grandfather, he ring them, and my father, 
and now I.” 

“Ah, I see,” said Walter. “They are the 
finest bells I ever heard.” 

“I think they are the best in the world,” 
said the boy, still with the hickory stick in his 
hand as they drove away. Charlie had for- 
gotten to ask him for it, and probably he was 
not averse to keeping such a good defence 
against snakes and reptiles. 

As they proceeded across the valley they could 
still hear at intervals the soft, delicious notes 


158 


The Return. 


played upon the ancient bells of his people by 
him of the third generation of bell-ringers of 
the fast diminishing, poverty-stricken but still 
devout Santa Isabels. 

They stopped at Eamona for the night, and 
noon next day found them nearing home. Char- 
lie was about to turn into a delightful woodland 
copse for luncheon when two ladies on horse- 
back were seen approaching. Mr. Page at once 
recognized the Almirantes. The recognition was 
mutual. The Sehora and the granddaughter 
came to the wagon and shook hands cordially 
with the occupants. 

‘^Now you are only a mile and a half from 
my home,’’ she said. beg that you will come 
and take dinner and pass the night with us.” 

At first they demurred, the party was so 
large, but the Senora was insistent. 

“Come and see an old Spanish ranch house,” 
she said. “You will possibly never see another. 
Come, I beg of you; all that we have is yours.” 

Eamona, the granddaughter, joined her en- 
treaties to those of the Senora, and the Pages 
at last consented. The ladies rode ahead to 
give notice of their coming, and when the party 
reached the ranch everything was found in 
readiness as though for long-expected guests. 
TVo neatly furnished bedrooms, each large 


The Return. 


159 


enough for a salon, were placed at their dis- 
posal, with plenty of water and fresh towels, 
very welcome after the long and dusty morning 
■ ride. Afterward, while waiting for dinner to 
be served, they sat in the long, covered porch, 
extending all around the large 'patio. There 
beautiful plants and flowers were growing, and 
several parrots hung in gilded cages. 

When dinner was over the Senora took the 
elder ladies to show them her laces. Mr. Page 
rambled in the gardens and flelds. The chil- 
dren, with Ramona and her brother, gathered at 
the edge of the ruined fountain, watching the 
toads that hopped over the rank moss. 

^^The Gordons are coming back soon,’^ said 
Alejandro. ^‘Then we shall have fine times 
again.’’ 

‘^But you will be at school,” said his sister; 
‘^you will not be here.” 

^^In vacation I will,” he replied. wish 
I did not have to go back to school. I like it 
when I am there, but I would rather stay at 
home.” 

^‘What are you going to be when you are 
a man?” asked Walter. ^^A lawyer or a 
doctor?” 

“Neither,” said Alejandro. “I am going to 
stay here and be a rancher. I mean to plant 


i6o 


The Return. 


the finest fruits, and pat in nuts, and do every- 
thing in the best possible way/’ 

^^That is so,” laughed Ramona. ‘^He is like 
that. He will be a rancher, as he calls it. And 
my grandmother wdll be pleased.” 

^^Say, Alejandro,” said Walter, who had been 
attentively regarding the boy; ^‘you won’t be 
mad if I tell you something, will you?” 

The brother and sister looked at each other 
and smiled. 

^^You are going to say I have very dark 
skin, or something like that,” said Alejandro. 
^‘So many people do who do not know us.” 

‘^No, not that,” replied Walter. ^^But it was 
this — you look so much like Francisco, an In- 
dian boy we liked so much at the Hot Springs, 
only you are not so dark.” 

“Francisco Perez?” asked Alejandro. “So 
I ought — he is my cousin.” 

“Your cousin exclaimed Walter and Hellie. 

“Yes, he is our cousin,” repeated Alejandro, 
stoutly. “He and Mauricio — and Cecilio — and 
many others at Warners. Our mother is an 
Indian.” 

/ 

“Oh, I am sorry,” said Walter, fearing he 
had made a mistake. “I would not have said 
anything ” 

^^Asd why not?” interrupted the other boy. 


The Return. 


i6i 


are not ashamed of it, Eamona nor I. Our 
mother is a good woman. Our father was the 
son of my grandmother.” 

^‘Naturally,” said Ramona, and they all 
laughed, at the expense of Alejandro. 

am not sure that I would have told you,” 
said Alejandro, ^^only I knew that you did not 

despise the poor Indians as some do ” 

Despise them !” exclaimed Nellie. “We like 
them, and we love Francisco.” 

Ramona gave the child’s hand an affectionate 
little squeeze. Nellie looked up at her and 
said : 

“You are so sweet. I wish we had known 
you all summer. And your hair is so lovely.” 
Ramona was wearing it in one long, heavy braid. 
Nothing could have been more simple or be- 
coming. 

“We will be friends, then,” she rejoined, 
playfully. “We have so few. My grandmother 
does not know the Americans well, but the Gor- 
dons she likes a great deal. And now that they 
are coming home and are your friends, we shall 
be all friends together.” 

“That will be nice,” said Nellie. “I hope 
mamma will let me come and stay with you 
sometimes ” 

“I don’t call that nice,” remarked Walter, 


i 62 


The Return. 


^^nviting yourself to a visit when you are hardly 
acquainted.” 

Don’t tease her/’ said Eamona. “She means 
well, and she shall come and stay with me.” 

“You can’t help asking her now,” said Walter, 
looking very glum. “I never knew her to be 
so impolite and bold before.” 

“But Walter,” said Nellie, “I meant for Ra- 
mona — may I call you Ramona? — to come and 
visit us, too. We are going to be great friends.” 

“Bold?” chuckled Alejandro, with a smile. 
“That makes me think of something. When 
I first went to Santa Clara I did not know 
English as well as I do now, although I had 
been at the Mission.” 

“With the Indians?” inquired Walter, 
thoughtlessly. 

“With the Indians — ^yes,” said Alejandro. 
“And why not? My mother put me there; it 
was a good place, and I liked the Sisters very 
much.” 

Walter looked mystified. Ramona hastened 
to explain. “When he was little,” she said, 
“Alejandro did not live with us. I have been 
with my grandmother since ,my father died. 
Alejandro was a little baby then. Our mother 
sent him, when he was old enough, tO' the 
Mission.” 


The Return. 


163 


‘‘And then my sister found me/’ added the 
boy. “But for her I should never have come 
here or known my grandmother.” 

“Well, that is too long a story,” said Ra- 
mona. “Maybe some other time you will hear 
it, but not now. What were you going to say 
before, ’Jandro?” 

“About ‘bold,’ ” replied her brother. “When 
I first went up there some English words were 
strange to me. Or, rather, I did not under- 
stand their different meanings. One day a big 
boy, a new one, too, said he did not like bold 
girls. ‘I like every one to be bold,’ I said. 
‘Girls are horrid when they are bold,’ said he. 
‘Sometimes they have to be,’ I said. ‘Suppose 
a mountain lion should come, and a girl would 
have to save herself from him, and would shoot, 
though afraid — then she would be bold.’ Oh, 
how he laughed ; and he said, ‘You mean hrave, 
don’t you?’ And then he told me the differ- 
ence.” 

“If you like Indians maybe you would be 
pleased to hear some Indian songs,” said Ra- 
mona. 

“We would,” replied Nellie. “There was a 
little baby up at the Springs, and its father 
used to put it to sleep in the afternoons by 
swinging it in a hammock. He sang in the 


164 


The Return. 


queerest way. His song was pretty, too; but 
whenever he saw that we were listening he 
would stop.^’ 

^‘Come, then, to Concelio in the kitchen — she 
will sing for you,^^ said Alejandro. 

They followed their young host, Nellie hold- 
ing fast to Eamona’s hand. Concelio was shell- 
ing peas. 

^^You must sing for these friends of ours, 
Concelio,’’ said Alejandro. Shall I get your 
guitar, Eamona? It sounds so much prettier 
with the guitar.” 

“Maybe they will not like,” said the old 
woman, “my voice is so cracked.” 

“Oh, but we will,” rejoined Walter. “We 
love the Indians, and we like their songs.” The 
old woman murmured something in Spanish, 
still smiling, however. 

“What did she say?” whispered Nellie to 
Eamona. 

“She said you were strange white people if 
you loved the Indians, but that she believed you 
were speaking the truth and would sing for 
you.” 

Alejandro returned with the guitar. Con- 
celio seated herself on the doorstep with the 
group around her. 

“This is putting the baby to sleep,” said Con- 


The Return. 


165 


celio, beginning to sing in her own tongue, the 
while she touched a few minor chords of the 
guitar : 

* Alo-o-o-o-o-o-o-a ! 

Swinging in the trees. 

Swinging with the breeze. 

Baby, go to sleep. 

Away, you naughty flies. 

Don't sting my baby’s eyes. 

She must sleep — sleep. 

Alo-o-o-o-o-o-o-a ! 

^‘That tune would put anybody to sleep,” 
said Nellie ; “but it is pretty.” 

“Here is another,” said the old woman. “It 
goes much quicker.” 

Amonda was a thief. 

And she stole a piece of beef. 

But the beef was very tough — 

Soon old woman had enough. 

Butcher Amonda sees. 

Laughs at her behind the trees. 

Laughs because the stolen beef 
Was too tough for wicked thief. 


• A free translation. 


i66 


The Return. 


one more, Concelio,’^ said Ramona; 
^Hhat little hymn.’’ 

Changing the expression of her face at once 
to one of the deepest devotion, the Indian woman 
sang: 


0 Maria, 0 Maria, 

Save us from our foes. 

From the heat and snows; 

Save us while we sing 
From every evil thing, 

0 Maria! 

When at morn we rise. 

Watch us from the skies; 

When at night we rest. 

Fold us to thy breast, 

0 Maria! 

Keep us in thy care. 

Always, everywhere; 

Lead us to thy Son 
When our days are done, 

0 Maria! 

There was something very pathetic and beau- 
tiful in the refrain of this song. While Con- 
celio was singing the elders came to listen. 
They would fain have heard more but, laugh- 


The Return. 


167 


ingly shaking her head, Coneelio ran away and 
hid in her own room until they were gone. 

The Senora would not permit her visitors to 
leave till next morning. When at last they tore 
themselves away it was with the understanding 
that Eamona and her brother should visit the 
Pages for a couple of days before school began. 

The friendship thus formed still continues, 
and is shared with that of the Gordons, who 
have returned to California. 

Francisco, true to his promise, came in Oc- 
tober with a large load of wood, and several 
sacks of walnuts which he had gathered for the 
children. 

He told them there had been another Junta, 
the people still persisting that they did not wish 
to leave their homes. “At last,” he said, “the 
white men grew angry, and said some Indians 
must come with them and help choose, since 
they knew best what they would like. ‘Will you 
come Captain Cecilio?^ said one. 

“ ‘No, I will not,^ said Cecilio. ‘First I will 
die.^ 

“ ‘That is wrong,^ said the man. ‘You will 
be sorry in the end, for you will have to go, and 
you will give a bad example to your people.’ 

“ ‘My people may do as they please,’ said Ce- 
cilio. ‘I give them no counsel. I tell them 


i68 


The Return. 


nothing. Whosoever wishes to go along with 
you, he may; but not I.^ And Captain Cecilio 
walked away, oh, very, very sorrowful.” 

^^And who went?” asked Mr. Page. 

^^My uncle, Mauricio, Ambrosio and Velas- 
quez. They did not want to go; but someone 
must go. Soon they will choose, and it may 
be that once more we shall be permited to har- 
vest our crops at Cupa — ^but for the last time, 
Senor, for the last time.” 

And so it came to pass. Once again, and 
only once, were the harvests gathered; once 
more was heard the sound of the primitive flail 
in the granaries of Cupa. Then its children 
were bidden to make ready their goods and chat- 
tels, their horses and cattle, their women folk, 
their little ones and their dogs, weeping and 
wailing as they went reluctantly forth from 
their dismantled homes. Some among them 
there were — ^these the very old — who escaped to 
the mountains, and who were never heard of 
again. 

In the end no resistance was made. The In- 
dians obeyed the mandates of the stronger race 
like the sullen but not insubordinate children 
they are. And as wagon after wagon from the 
deserted village reached the summit of the hill. 


The Return. 


169 


giving the last view of the vapory cloud rising 
from the Agua Caliente of their fathers and 
their fathers’ fathers, each paused upon its on- 
ward course, and the occupants looked back upon 
the home they were leaving forever. Then, 
folding their garments about them and bowing 
their heads in voiceless sorrow, the children of 
Cupa, lonely and broken-hearted, passed into 
exile. 


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